I’m waiting or dehydrating in this midlife loop,
stuck between nothing and what to do, thirsty
for a shot of life’s finest spirits and a sip of
more than just stagnancy. Meanwhile, the
taco man that sets up across the street from
me everynight calls out sick on Instagram
for fear of being caught up in the immigration
sweep that’s devoured the Southland. One
minute you’re slicing al pastor for a hungry
Caucasian community, the next you’re seized
by men hiding in masks and Americana. I
prefer my carne asada with a slight char and
I’m not even mad as the protesters burn the
US flag in the Long Beach streets because the
man who likes his meat rare and the neighbor
who wants it well-done both bleed out when
hurt and my city is being stabbed, which
resurrects me as my blood boils into an
inferno while I offer a torch to scorch every
dirty star, to incinerate every misplaced stripe.
Daniel Romo writes, lives, and loves in Long Beach, CA.
