And I sat there
eating pan dulce,
from the ultra-Mexican bakery
where the clerk spoke to me in perfect English
assuming I didn’t speak the language
I took it as a compliment on my complexion
While I thought of your smooth dark thighs
Como la concha-chocolate estaba comiendo
thinking so fondly of you
as the boxcars passed with their poetry
in the fading light,
trying not to think
how soon my shift was approaching
how badly I wanted you there to share in that moment
and yet you were in my thoughts
estabas con cada seco dulce mordida
to liven up an otherwise lame day
where we both had to work our menial jobs
in our menial lives
persisting on
through the crepuscular ephemera
that comprises this
life
where it is time to begin anew
passando la calle en el crepúsculo sol
like the dawning of things
dilating my eyes for the coming night.
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