middle of january
and speckles
of salt
pickle raw
the slimy sidewalks.
the heels of my snow
shucking boots
-a numb pestle-
mash these curbside
pearls
to a dirty
white paste.
I walk,
and walk until
the view
of your building
simmers out
of the fog.
1756 southern boulevard.
right across
the lot where
that anti-castro
cuban used to
station
his deli
on wheels.
a moving van
for hire
now curdles
in the near empty
lot.
waiting for my bus,
the air rank
suspiciously
of the guy's
cafecito cubano.
the one you always
asked me to buy
(with three sugars)
while I, wan,
unseasoned,
await for you
to emerge
full flavored
from your building.
then startling me,
the air brakes
of my bus went off,
like an overeager
safety valve
of a roiling
pressure cooker.
I think it was you,
wound burrito tight
in a tan down jacket,
huffing out
of your building,
trying to catch
my bus.
(should
have been
our bus.)
but you were
too late.
the bus doors
just slid shut
and like steam
hissing out from
an opened
boiling pot,
clouded
my vision
of you.