A Bart Simpson piggy bank bobs past.
The desert sun sears my lip, my right ear, and chin
while the shadows of the fence slice me.
I take two steps but would rather turn around.
Ahead, polyester arms folded. Bags colored, weaved
in plastic. Backs ache.
The line moves. Then stops.
Car exhaust. Rap music grates my ears, profanity
silences the melancholy yearning
of a ranchera ballad. Tires turn clockwise,
one minute, then another.
The bells ring on a cart with roses
of Mazapan. Cotton candy perched on sticks
like clouds from yesterday’s sunset,
and handwoven blankets sit
on the shoulder of a child.
Sweat trickles like tears from last night’s confession
when my beard rubbed against yours. Your cologne on my shirt.
My foot moves forward and then back. Someone cut in line.
Like a ghost, the elotero disappears by the park.
The trees, the crabgrass locked in. And I place the ring back on my finger.
Published in Cider Press Review, Volume 23, Issue 4.
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