It’s a small resturant

where my sir name matters

at the small splintered table

randomly scattered among the

dirty linoleum floors

where I can’t pronounce the signs.

Green chili on my eggs?

No- not with my tongue that

can’t bear the sauces and terms,

The old man bent across from me smiles

through his deep wrinkles of a thousand summers,

I’ve been thinking like a foreigner here,

stumbling over the constant wind

to everyone’s delight.

What a foolish idea

that I’d blend in

like the green chili on burritos

when I can’t take the taste.

 

17 August 05

Dave Barber

Collection: Painting with Fingers

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