Famished foodies rave about Noodle
Nirvana’s fresh

mangoes, handmade zucchini
noodles, crisp

smell of lime and lemongrass — but who
gives a rat’s ass? I nestle

into El Rio Grande, housed in an old
Hardees, where mariachi

polkas and corridos twist
in the air like ghost

lovers striding the tango to the trumpet, that
gleamer, and five thumping

strings of the little vihuela. It’s not just
the dangling chili

pepper lights, tissue paper
roses, rainbow serape, or bull

piñata, Roberto remembers my Chori
Pollo and coaxes me into fried

ice cream, while I crack my new
journal and scratch poems.