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.

Sherry O’Keefe

Barnwood poetry magazine