A restaurant vent smoking out early morning pigeons
perched and waiting on fire escapes above for
the thrown offerings of expired bread that scatter puff-smoke.

I wonder if our people always knew we’d turn
to the fryer like a false God while we await The Return.

The same scene is painted every few blocks,
I’m sure. And everyone’s just as especial, I’m sure of it.
The orchestras of clicking pilot lights and flame, tops
of chafing dishes sounding like cymbals.

A lone male cook in the back, abuela’s recipes in his head.
And a señora, daughter, wife, or other family member
but a mother no less, with her hands bagging
pressed sandwiches, handling dollar bills, coffees and dishes,
or pouring out libations of seasoning over the lunch menu. 

They don’t say it, but teachers at the high school
like Latino students more than other teachers because
whether or not we know “good” English, math is universal.

How else could you explore the metrics of two employees
divided by eat-in and take-out orders multiplied by
empanadas, rellenos de papas, y surullitos magically
appearing in bodegas by the 6:30am bus?

This must be why our history books stopped in ‘88
because someone is still making math out of this magic
and if we all knew arithmetic, our greatness
would be overwhelming.

I thought our ancestors were mentioned
in a chapter recently, but I was mistaken.

Instead, the chapter talked about villages.
How shamans lived at the cliff-edges of tribes
to communicate with their people, other groups,
the spirits, guided by smoke.

So these are the medicine makers:

         “Hola, mi amor…”
         “Hola, chulo…”
         “Hola, nena…”
         “Hola, nene…”  

with every expelling at the front counter.

A spell casted kiss of “I see you” when the brown bag
is clasped and handed over to keep our community
going another day.

What do our ancestors do when they see
the fryers’ sizzling hiss as a golden half-moon
crests a brown geyser and is placed in a paper bag
like a pouch or laid out in a small oven, a greased altar.