Huevos Rancheros

{{center}Huevos Rancheros


I only miss you on Sundays
When the newspaper is weighty,
Savory as the coffee
Steaming in our white mugs,
Made perfect
With two creams and two sugars.
One ashtray, two cigarettes,
One filtered butt-stained candy apple red.

You always called the waitress "Hon."
She would always laugh with you
When you told a joke.
I flipped through the weekly ads
In color, and black and white,
Scanning, spending nothing by making a list.
Finally finding the tide report
Planning an afternoon seashore search
For marine marvels,
If the tide should ebb before dark.

Our second cup was consumed
By the time the easy overs arrived,
With toast, strips of bacon,
And a basket of packets of marmalade,
Strawberry, and the infrequent cherry.

Maybe I just miss going out to breakfast
At that little Mexican restaurant
Where there were always children.
I would smile at them, beyond parent's gazes,
Imagining our future together.

You were always across the booth,
Hidden behind the sports section,
Under the graying mustache,
Behind the glasses, focusing fuzzy hazel eyes,
Buffered by salt and pepper curled locks.
A heart that I heard beat in harmony
To what I thought I wanted
For a time.

The newspaper,
The news, the basketball scores,
Aren't that different today.
Neither am I.
That's why I think of you
On Sunday mornings,

And my soul warms the memories.

* Dedicated to Richard Levin, who passed away on July 4, 2006


May his ashen remains enrich the Grand Canyon
The way his love and care enriched my understanding of life.