Segundas/Sobre ruedas

Cross-border entrepreneurs of Tijuana

scour the rock-bottom remnants

of U.S. thrift-shop stock.

They bid for televisions aren’t sure to work;

torn couches, blow dryers, food processors.

On the asphalt left behind—useless items:

a bowling ball, golf bags, old unhinged suitcases.

Their weather-beaten vans hold the items with cords

and drive through the I-5S freeway

toppling six, eight, 11 feet high:

beach chairs

rugs

artificial plants

lamps

dishwashers

bed frames

sofas

solid-wood dining room sets

But at the border checkpoint,

where San Diego’s poorest neighbor watches

from behind the fences,

the officer, sunglasses slipping

down his long thin nose,

waits for the vans to stop

and tells them to unpack

the mountain of goods

for inspection.

Earlier version first appeared in Vanilla Press, Issue 4, 2010

Writer’s Note: This poem came about after reading a news article about how some vendors crossing the US/Mexico border would go through inspection at the gate. Growing up very close to the border, I’ve only visited Tijuana (we call it TJ) a couple of times as a kid with my family and I remember seeing a few vans or cars like this in line.

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