The Regular

                       The Regular

He started eating breakfast at the Taosueno
after Abuelito died in her late eighties.
Wanda can set her wristwatch by him:
6:45 A.M. and he needs no menu. She dries her hands
on her gingham apron and pours a cup of black coffee
in his mug, she keeps it stashed behind the counter:

A tourist cup tattooed with an outside Zia symbol
and with a bathtub ring of coffee stains lurking
inside the crockery lip. His cheeks rub against
their cheerful eye pouches when he sips his Joe.

Eyes twinkle to friends and acquaintances

with an open sparkle that was once reserved
only for Abuelito. Intermittently, his gaze saddles
a farmer or Highway Dept. employee, possibly
even a distant primo, into joining him for a time.

Most daybreaks, he eats alone. His tobacco yellowed fingers
grip his knife and fork like surgical tools, scalpel and curette
He slides his dentures back and forth in his mouth
waiting for Wanda to pour more scalding coffee,

then smiles and anticipates the morning special.



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