Corazon de Poeta

Esquina Del Sabor
Humboldt Park, Chicago

–

Neutral Food Truck

While in line, an unspoken, temporary truce is called
between royalty and a serpent.
Their hands fidget,
hovering uncomfortably above a bulge
buried inside the pockets of sagging jeans.
Neither completely turning their back to the other,
except to order.

Lovers of the Food Truck

He leans one arm against the rusting window of the food truck.
Una alcapurria y un pastelillo con una Kola Champagne
para esta belleza. He licks his lips.
The corners curling into a sly smirk.
He flicks a playful glance her way.
Smiling, she nods her head,
and reaches for his hand.

Summer Food Truck

It knows the score to the little league games behind it.
It knows who brings a new woman to the stands every Sunday.
It knows who pulls the trigger at night.

Viejitos of the Food Truck

A lone, stone table is reserved for daily arguments
about exposed domino pieces.
One taps his last ficha on the table.
His diente de oro brillando as he sings
La vida te da sorpresas, sorpresas te da la vida
The others chime in
Ay dios!
The seagulls listen, too, as they beg for more pan con mantequilla.
They’re boricua now, engulfing the men and creating
an island of their own.
The closest to an island the men will ever be again.
Capicu!

Changing Food Truck

Forced to be more inclusive, the menu is now bilingual.
Morcilla
is accompanied by its less attractive translation
Blood Sausage.
The pig’s blood boils because it knows
the dried whiteout replaces price tags
and people.

Foreigners at the Food Truck

They jog through their new home and see something foreign.
They press their nose up to its window.
Everything inside is the color of their retriever and smells of marinated sweat
and seasoned heart attacks- a smell they never knew they needed.

Gentrified Food Truck

Pero esta esquinita del sabor
No se vende

– A.DJ ❤