Castigo

 

He is our castigo

We see him approach as smoke

From a dying lantern whirling down

Into the city sewer grates

And he is our castigo

A combover ratty and vain

Are greasy fingers trembling

With Diet Coke jitters

And he is our castigo

For amends never made

The ghost of Garcia Lorca

Whirs across the Atlantic to face him

Wailing a song down the St. Lawrence

To land in Chicago

One of the man's towers

Borders the dark river there

And Federico's ghost approaches him

On the threshold of the building