I would like to live in a Mexican restaurant
Not in the back where I’d have to make food
For others to eat until there were no others
Because I’m making the food
And I’d have to eat it myself
By myself
And that’s just Real Life With Hairnets

I would like to live in a Mexican restaurant
In a cracked vinyl booth under a mural
Of a runaway bull cornered by caballeros
Wielding lariats and machismo
In the red-yellow dust of a plaza
Where señoritas watch the daily spectacle
From the doorway of a cantina
Beneath a sign painted with the name
Of the restaurant I call home

My perspiring brown plastic glass of iced tap water
Leaves white rings of wet on the formica
Which I hate
And try to hide
By moving the red lumpy glass candle away
From its post by the scarred silver dispenser
Of tissue-thin white napkins
That I should have placed beneath my glass

I eat chips and salsa and salsa
And spill
And try to learn the language from the fútbol on the TV
Above the bar I never approach
Because la cerveza comes to me in my booth
Beneath the mural of the desperate bull
Because I live here
In a Mexican restaurant

And frijoles smell like home


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