I took some weapons south of the border
to deal with a plagiarist named Raul.
He stole my words, exposed me to slander,
Published lies—tried to play me for a fool.
I tracked him over to Ciudad Juarez
where pimps I know had spotted him in town.
He, however, had fled to Veracruz;
I tracked him there, for there I was not known,
and could strike him down with impunity.
I found him in an hourly hotel.
I checked in with a false identity,
and now I wait—for the Cathedral bell
to mask my shots when midnight starts to toll—
writing this poem, cleaning my pistol.