No Comments// Posted in General, Poetry by Kerry Flory on 10.29.09.

old Mexican men, with thick ruddy skin and white mustaches,
stand in their Carharts and green cordoroys at the bus stop.
cracked-skinned hands grip blue plastic lunch coolers,
which later will double for chairs on their lunch breaks at the worksite.
a bar with faux Mexican, “historic,” wooden arched entrance charms customers
to duck inside for quasi-ethnic food.
a thrift shop storefront is shaded white with condensation,
clouding the view of the vintage, hip, disheveled mannequins wearing recycled
Twiggy dresses, chopped burgundy 80s boots, plaid western button-ups, and large-cuffed Levis 501 denim.
the street is lined with grey snow, compacted and buffed slick
by the melting and refreezing of 3 nights now.
a small puddle is now a lake of ice in the alley,
awaiting a bicyclist or pedestrian to slip in the dark of night.

across the street, there is another Mexican food joint,
this one lacking the grandeur of its neighbor,
but rather, simply and humbling, staking its claim, not with neon fronts and cliché atmosphere,
but with a small, once-white, now ivory, plastic sign with a generic picture of a taco and burrito,
and its name, something like, “Jose’s Taco Palace,” written in plain, simple font
–black paint sheering the tips of the letters.
the neighbors stop for menudo and burritos covered in molé,
recipe perfected by 70-year-old Mexican women in terra cotta kitchens.
they tuck secrets in their aprons: the number of ingredients, the time to simmer,
how to balance the perfect amount of heat and chocolate.
a big-name bank and Starbucks just moved into the new corner building.
the suited businessmen and stockinged women pull their SUVs or silver sedans into a meter spot,
rush in, get cash and a lowfatcranberrymuffin and a skinnyventilatte
before balancing a cell phone on their ears and a muffin and coffee in their hands,
all while shivering their way back to their cars.
the Mexican men on the corner stand at the bus stop, watching the city tango,
while drinking the coffee that their wives poured into plaid thermoses.
black.

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