Street Food

Instantly begin your marinades.
There’s peeling to be done.
Charring of tomatillos.
Smoking of chilies.
Onions to be diced.
Onions to be sliced.
Tonight’s gonna bring some fun.

It’s all I got.
This goddamn pot.
Maybe some Tupperware
But as you can see, I fucking care.
Sometime it’s a Thermos
Full of menudo or pozole
Or a slow bubbling cauldron on 8th street filled with a chocolate mole.

Sometimes it’s a shopping cart
But maybe I upgrade.
Under a tree or an awning
On a corner
Through the shadows
Or under some shade.

Radishes
Escabeche
Salsas that are green and red
Limes
People start to gather
Street cred.

I don’t believe all the things you said
That it’s dirty
Or dangerous
Or an adventure
Into some strange fascinating
World.
I’m just trying to feed and be fed.

The poetry is in the fact that to the vendor there was no poetry to begin with.
Just a grind.

So if you find us
Then know that this is how we eat
How we put shoes on our feet
That it’s on corners
And not in a seat
That this is LA
With no sneeze guards
Where old geezers on The Today Show would propagandize that it’s not clean,
That germs would exist
To scare the public into buying more Wet Ones to suffice their sponsors.

When the only germ
is your fear.
That the world might become a place
Where what you believed to be true,
Might disappear.

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