392 Readings | 1 Rating

Cesar’s Coffee

Cesar says it through the hovering ring,
that I am nothing but a dumb gringa
waiting for Quetzalcoatl to come. He is
sitting outside my little place
on a plastic white chair stained with
cigarette holes.

He hands me a can of El Pico when he comes,
tells me to make it strong, real strong.

I grind lemons on the counter while
the coffee falls into the pot, because lemons
cure heartache. I watch him through the window,
the curtains are the color of elotes.

He has big knuckles tapping
on the table, he is blowing the smoke
at me, making my hair smell like
cheap cigars, the kind he keeps in
his sweaty, wet jean pockets
all day outside the stupid
pelicula place.

A church bell rings, and the coffee
is done. I feel stupid for being white.
Posted 08/20/10
This poem will appear on "The Foundling Review" soon. Very honored.
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