DINNERTIME

The sun hangs like a cherry tomato,
ripening by the minute across the Hudson,
spilling its golden juices over asphalt streets.
Rollerblades swoop on and off the curbs,
darting between dog-walkers and UPS trucks.
It's delivery hour on the Upper West Side.
Cross carefully:  the local restaurants
have sent forth their immigrant brigades
on beat-up bikes that charge the wrong way
down the up avenues.
"No menus please" is a lost cause;
the doormen know them by their first names.
Huge flat pizza boxes perch atop wire baskets.
Szechuan chicken hangs on handlebars.
Paper bags are packed with nachos and noodles,
comidas chinas y criollas, and gourmet Vietnamese.
What's not being delivered is being picked up
by the hordes streaming out of subways and buses
with their backpacks and briefcases,
sore feet and loosened ties.
Who's this handsome fellow striding by with
nothing but a smile and a fistful of flowers?
Is his dinner order already on its way?
Could somebody actually be home cooking?


© Ellen Azorin