pitstop

how did i end up here, in this taqueria late at night with soccer above me, cooking carne in the air and the sound of trumpets blasting behind the forlorn bellies of lost amor. my phone spins in small circles to the rhythm as my amor goes over his schedule with me and rubs his weathered eye. exhausted, running endlessly, i can tell the restaurant wants to close around us and it’s finally time to go on to the next pit stop. he tells me about a time he smoked crack in the bathroom here, i refill his cup with diet soda and off we go.