by Peter Leroe-Muñoz
BREAKFAST IN AMERICA
To be precise, my single cup of Japanese
loose-leaf tea purchased from an Afghani waiter who
happened to be working that shift in a French café
sat down between an Ethiopian eatery and a Malaysian
noodle house knotted with Guatemalan cocineros on
a city block that was previously German but
frequently misattributed as Dutch.
A counter radio throats in another language. Then,
a tug for attention: English names of high-ranking officials.
The waiter stiffens. A pause with both wrists on the linoleum counter.
He turns to face the eaters and carefully plots each step
to balance the potted steam and pastry cones in both hands.
He watches the entry a bit longer when each patron enters.
Morning news is becoming endemic. Economies, countries, and
religions biting in circles, a bit like rotating a restaurant tray, but
one that takes nourishment in place of offering it.
My paper cup cools and it’s time to return to the world.
The low sun overwhelms the horizon, hiding shapes
in the plain sight of its glare. The waiter continues to watch
that door and try to make sense of whatever comes through.
Border Keepers
Bodies are usually locked from the inside,
latched with five fruits, sobriety and the predictable
autonomy of knowing how to beat, blink and breathe.
Life, however, is a courteous intruder:
a tumor sliding delicately through jelly,
silently asking to shake
the left hand that only you owned
at the beginning of the month.
Then, some random midweek and
the old world passes unnoticed,
like a stooped man selling figs
at a guarded checkpoint with booted men
waggling sweaty wrists to
wave him through before
returning to catch
the replay of a long-socked striker slipping
a corner kick past eleven men in powder blue satin.
Peter Leroe-Muñoz is a poet living in the San Francisco Bay Area. An attorney by trade, a writer by passion, his previous work has appeared in Modern Haiku, Heron’s Nest, Acorn, and the forthcoming issue of Soul Poetry, Prose and Arts Magazine.