A Poem

An afternoon down at Zona's.

Tamales for a dollar,

Cigarettes a quarter.

Paint over peeled paint,

Orange and blue.

Two tables,

Umbrellas barely shading.

It's electric summer hot.

Water bottle of whiskey.

The styrofoam shell of chili fries,

On the next table,

Smells like shit.

Lalo Cura