On the Corner of Junipero, Learning

Not to Hold the Chili Powder

 

They hear the honk from the corn man’s cart-

plastic and blue, stolen from someone who stole

it from somewhere on El Segundo where rappers rap

about lost wallets and forgotten jimmy cappers.

 

Stitched into this Pacific hem, he is a land-man

to his water-woman with her mermaid way

of flicking water over pain. They form an island

each time she visits him from her mountain shore

 

wild with snap peas and hollyhocks bending- earthy

and green, tossed and trusted to gain root as silent

sentries waiting for her return.  He weaves his way back

to her, through skaters and sidewalk trash- with one cob

 

con todo.  Mayonnaise, chili powder, parmesean and butter. 

They share the ear of corn, juicy- yet explosive. Living

here, he says, I’ve learned to trust the cook has a reason

for his combinations. Eat, just the way it’s served.                               printable

 

Waiting at the Luncheon Counter for My Tuna Melt

 

This is - remember -
this is not the way your life will turn
out as you listen to, as you overhear two old
men talk about Walter Benyen. One knew him well
the other was his nephew. He died

(didn't he?) they ask each other,
reaching for a bit of dry toast, a sip of bitter
coffee with that same abandoned air you saw
in a man walking through North Park
holding an empty leash, and in the pages

of the hardbound book you saw fluttering
after each passing car, staying where it landed
in the crosswalk down the street. But you wonder
why a book gets tossed, if a dog is ever found.
You thought to stop to read the title, to search

for the dog, but you didn’t. And you don’t
ask now which one is Joe when you stand
at the jukebox, studying the note taped
to the glass: Don’t play G7 if Joe is here.
It brings him bad memories.                                                                    printable