He wakes up in the morning,

the sun is painting the horizon with its rays.

He sits at the table, yawning,

because it's getting harder to sleep these days.

Breakfast is huevos rancheros,

he washes it down with his mother's smile.

The bus honks, and he knows;

his torture begins when he starts down the aisle.

He thinks of his father,

who was only 14 when his family hitchhiked out of Mexico,

who now wakes up when the stars are still out,

who drives to work with the moon riding shotgun,

who works from 5 to 9 instead of 9 to 5

because he has faith that the American dream is still alive.

He thinks of his mother,

who was forced out of school to get a job instead,

who worked beside her mother and sisters to earn minimum wage,

who now cleans a house that isn't her own

because it's the only thing that she's ever known.

The thought of his parents and their struggles thrives in his mind,

and he takes a seat in the back of the bus, resigned.

The kids crowd around with harsh words and jeers,

but he takes it all with red-tipped ears.

It's unfair, and he feels alone;

the other kids face forward, and he accepts that he's on his own.

He's ashamed, but he doesn't allow it to consume him;

he refuses to let the dream that shined like a beacon to his parents

become something dark and grim.

His parents faced their struggles, and he has to face his.

So when he comes home at the end of the day,

both eyes, one brown and one black, are fixed on the ground.

Clenching the straps of his backpack,

he vows to keep his head down.