It tastes so good when you
know that it’s going to hurt so bad
tomorrow.
Later,
is what you say to your date that you bailed on,
to instead find solace in a solo excursion to the
local Mexican spot.
Burritos aren’t first date material.
You’re on a first name basis with
all the older women who run the cashier and
kitchen.
Linda runs the grill,
Maria takes care of the toppings,
while also taking your order.
“Burrito de bistec, mami?”
Gratitude seeps from your
anxiously sweaty pores.
They smile as you pour copious condiments,
too much red sauce,
not enough green sauce;
you always preferred the fire to the salt, anyways.
You’ve grown accustomed to living in an
almost-too-sweaty, self-induced state of being.
It’s not for everyone,
and you wouldn’t have it any other way.
In some situations,
a fork and knife is required.
This is one of those times.
You scoff at the haters;
the cutlery is necessary and
nobody gets to judge for
using too much sauce.
There are guttural sounds
that escape your mouth.
Unfortunately, you’re in too deep
to realize
or even be held accountable.
Anything that happens from this moment on,
is not
your
fault.
Chaos reigns
supreme:
upgrade your meal,
make it a deluxe supreme deluxe,
with a side of
rice and beans,
and a hilarious amount of lettuce
(that’s supposed to be salad).
Bliss is all you know,
and all you’ll ever know,
when this plate appears
before your burrito-shaped
eyeballs.
