Taqueria El Buen Sabor

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


Taqueria El Buen Sabor, San Francisco

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