This doesn't mean how the images are not actually poetical. His description of working inside the factory "In the fleck of rubber, under the press/Of an oven yellow with flame" is often a strikingly vivid image, as is his description of running past individuals so effortlessly that their faces come to be "blurred like photographs, in rain". But these lines appear as natural as ones that are overtly conversational, just like "Over the fence, Soto," he shouted.
The use of short lines, staccato words and phrases, the linear rhythm broken by punctuation all produce the sense of a man who is thinking - or perhaps thinking out-loud - as he usually does. The lengthening of lines throughout the poem and also the reality how the lines at the end are much less broken by punctuation than are individuals at the starting also suggests how the speaker is at very first breathing tough and somewhat raggedly as he begins to run but that by the end of the poem he has gained an simpler rhythm of running and breathing - and maybe even of living as he propels himself into the 21st century.
The speaker's tone is wry throughout: We may perhaps well expect a greater level of anger than we in reality hear. This is a man who is putting in a difficult day's work inside a hot factory when he is suddenly told that he has to drop everything and run before the paramilitary force and authority from the immigration police. He is inside a moment stripped of all of his rights, even his right to work hard at an unrewarding job so that he can assist himself, probably the most easy of all human rights.
And the reason that he is getting thrown away - as well as all the others that he works with everyday and who are most likely his friends - is because of an accident of birth and of skin color. Others who work are dispensable mainly because they have been born in Mexico; he is dispensable because other folks in his household have been born outside with the United States and came the following lured by the American Dream.
Soto's poem is a celebration of a single man's coming to understand that even even though he isn't like the new immigrants that he works alongside of and that even though he just isn't like individuals white People in america who have lived in the United States for generations, he even now belongs.
The poem is filled not with bitterness or anger but over all with hope, the optimism of that "great, silly grin" that he believes will carry him (and he looks to think other Latinos like him) to a future wherever they will be as American as anyone else. Given the ways where Latinos have actually grown in political, economic and cultural power from the generation mainly because Soto wrote this poem, it's difficult not to see him as each a skilled poet but also a prescient seer, someone who understood that that a combination of tough jobs and optimism would pay off.
Soto's boss tells him that there's "No time for lies", but the entire poem argues that lies are actually what quite a few people do have time for, that much of American culture is manufactured on lies about who is
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