poblanos on the grill
when a songbird singing
a new-to-me song
flashed from one
branch to another.
Her wing briefly
backlit by the
five o’clock sun
glowed like the wing
of an angel or the veil
of the bride standing
with her back to the sun under
the grapevine-draped arbor
at a curated sunset wedding.
Just then, what I thought
was another strange bird
was a little boy walking
up the street tooting
a whistle. Over and over.
Maybe one day he’ll be a cop.
But they don’t use whistles
anymore. Or wear white gloves
to direct traffic. The people
with whistles are the neighbors
who warn about the presence
immigration thugs. Good boy!
The poblanos are making
that satisfying crackling
that signals they’re ready
to come off the fire
and go into the bag
to cool before peeling
off the blackened skins
and removing the seeds
from within. For rellenos, oh my!
