Tuesday, April 14, 2015

Poem #100

We sat outside
even thought the chill was strong
Ordered guacamole
and hot corn tortillas

The woman, small, round
formed a ball of masa
from a huge bowl
then placed it in a wooden contraption
two heavy pieces to close
The tortilla she placed
on the hot iron wheel
was perfect
It took a few minutes
to make each one
She kept a practiced eye on the wheel
turning the yellow discs
putting them on a plate
forming a ball of masa
putting it in the contraption
closing the wooden arms
leaning her weight on them
over and over
Eight hours? More?
What does she think about
this tortilla woman?
does her back ache?
do her feet hurt?
All of us white people she smiles at
the money to buy the expensive meals

We left a big tip
Hoping she would get some of it

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