A ladle slowly traces the figure eight
as it stirs the stupor of the refried beans
Calm is the hand that guides this gentle dance
Blank the mind that observes
A hair net, barely visible
Betrayed only by a thin dark line
that curves its way across her head
Vanishing into the universal tight, black bun
Of women who work;
Women with families
Women whose beauty is reserved for Sundays
and the patient eye that chooses to see:
The restroom is out of service
The Yerba mate is sold out
In the corner, Mary prays by the roses
with a single candle lit
Attention is the poetry of consciousness
And perhaps that’s why
Taco shells find their purpose in spice and lime
Or the horchata tank still bubbles with joy sublime
El Buen Sabor is church today
In this hot and humid taqueria,
In a city gone mad,
Even the flies are dancing in beams of light
Here, where there is refuge
for the seeker’s plight
