Ode to My Mojo

Hey Mojo!

Where’d you go?

I didn’t realize you were gone until

I noticed I had lost the spring in my step.

I was knocking myself against walls.

I was tripping over the dog.

I was petting myself.

I was alone in a room

with no music and only

an Edward Hopper

painting staring back at me.

I was an L.A. woman stuck in the Midwest.

I was a Cuban woman without angry oranges.

I was a poet watching my words escape me.

I was a painter without cerulean.

I was a photographer without Kodachrome.

Mojo you left me when I walked out the door

on my husband as my cocker spaniel barked

in the backyard carrying only my baby

and a diaper bag.

Hey police!

You have reached the Miami police department.

I left my husband. He was violent.

Where are you?

I walked ten blocks to the nearest grocery store.

I am waiting here and not sure what to do.

We are sending a car over.

Hey Mojo!

Where’d you go?

I want you in my pollo.

I want you in my tostones.

I want you in my frijoles.

I want to pour my mojo into a bottle

and take you wherever I go.

Hey Mojo!

You eat it.

You eat everything.

Hey Mojo!

You like it!

You really like it!

Life is a cereal Mojo.

Don’t you know?

It is packaged nicely in a rectangular box

with sometimes a surprise inside.