At the Red Bicycle
Ordering a bacon gorgonzola burger with fries
watching the lead singer screw his mike stand together
and the keyboardist hunch over his keys.
The mustard walls are stained on purpose to look old.
Two of the bar lamps are missing.
The waitress has five children at home.
She’s smiling at me as she lights the candle on my table.
Words fall from the ceiling: estrella, nunca, besos.
The plastic floor is revealed in long fingers of sunlight
A patron with a cane rocks across the floor to the door and out.
After waiting an hour for my family to join me here,
I’ve ordered a bacon gorgonzola burger with fries.
I’m drinking my second glass of cabernet
Waiting to get a feeling of freedom.
Could I be free?
Or am I trapped in the Amazon?
At the Red Bicycle II
Here is my bacon gorgonzola cheeseburger.
The patty glistens under the flows of cheese,
The translucent ribbons of onion,
The intelligent pig.
How do they get those pickles so wavy?
How can I be like that small girl next to me, twisting her striped legs under the table, picking her nose, knocking over her water with a straw between her teeth, examining the children’s menu like the Holy Bible.
At the Red Bicycle III
Wondering why my family isn’t here.
I’d have to stop writing if they were here,
So why do I care?
Chords from the keyboard overwhelm the ceiling words.
Nothing I have ever eaten is as good as these French fries,
hot and soft, with chewy salty edges.
My phone batteries are completely dead and I can’t call them any more.