Taco Stand Man

The cleaver starts hammering down
Beating time on the block
Like a visceral pirate's blade,
Your fingers left untouched;

Coriander bustles under its force,
Festooning the air with potent spice,
Swept into trays of onion and lime;
Tortillas tossed and flipped by hand.

Salad onions are circled,
Sprawling like Rivero's lillies
In a sink of bubbling oil,
Gross bulbs encrusted sordid gold;

Resting in the centre,
Intestine, snout, leg and trotter
Are heaped proudly for customers.
You work them through the oil again.

Someone sits. They order
And you leap to work;
A glob of entrail is picked from the glut
And severed, chopped and diced

Until the final cut,
When you sweep the meat into your hand.
A perfect fit in the tortilla
Which goes on a plate and over the counter;

It pleases you,
Standing back for a moment
To watch him eat and dribble
And take one more serviette.

The taco stand is a white tin hut
With neon paper signs
Peeling painted designs
And odours of putrid delight.

What does it matter that you can't stand up?