Pete

Agrepeito worked for us,
A cream in coffee colored man. 
From far off Cajillon. 
He came in spring for lambing
And left in fall. 
He ate at our table,
Slept outside in a bedroll
He brought from home. '

His weathered face was ageless. 
Eyes dimmed from sun and smoke,
His voice soft with gentle quiet. 

He herded sheep in the high country. 
His tent a place of refuge,
With smells of tobacco, coffee,
Baking powder, bread, and loneliness. 

He loved us,
The children of his Patron.
We stole his bread, he did not mind,
We called him "Pete."

I see him still, this beautiful
Mexican man,
Sitting inside the open tent
On a small camp stool,
​Rolling an evening smoke.