At the factory I worked In the fleck of rubber, under the press Of an oven yellow with flame, Until the border patrol opened Their vans and my boss waved for us to run. "Over the fence, Soto," he shouted, And I shouted that I was an American. "No time for lies," he said, and pa**es A dollar in my palm, hurrying me Through the back door. Since I was on his time, I ran And became the wag to a short tail of Mexicans-- Ran past the amazed crowds that lined The street and blurred like photographs, in rain. I ran from that industrial road to the soft Houses where people paled at the turn of an autumn sky. What could I do but yell vivas To baseball, milkshakes, and those sociologists Who would clock me As I jog into the next century On the power of a great, silly grin.