Back at home
the workers are waiting for me,
one stirring a bucket
full of wet cement.
They are waiting
for me to unlock the door
but I won’t, not again
as I have so many times before.
Go get your Jefe, I say,
which confuses them.
Walk over & ask him, please,
to come here.
The workers don’t like to be told
by women, by anyone
except their Jefe,
but this worker listens.
What else can he do? La Señora
won’t open the door, not until
el Jefe comes, & la Señora
commences to explain:
no more workers without
a Jefe on site to supervise;
no more shoes in my house or trash
flung in my yard; no more urine
on my toilet seat; no more
burying wet cement in my garden;
no more arriving
without texting me first.
Do you have my number?
He’s watching me, el Jefe,
nodding & softly answering
Sí. After I shut my kitchen door
he motions his workers
over to his pickup – one
carries the bucket of wet cement
just beginning to glaze.
El Jefe drives away.
OMG, did he really???? LOL LOL. This IS a horror. Not terribly surprising, but so hard to live with. You're getting some good poems out of the nightmare however. :-)
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