Ode/Eulogy to Cemitas Puebla

banner of papalo leaves
chihuahua cheese 
and chipotle
gem of the west side
west of homan side
too far for the average foodie to risk 
missing the 72 bus 
a new siren call 
so far from comfort
haven for the adventure white
willing to slum it to savor the same salsas 
Some minimum wage underage busboy
Would one day have the gall to present 
to me with the audacious question in all its Naperville’s stank
“you guys know about our salsas?”

Our salsas 
like he inherited handfuls of sazon 
Our salsas
like he chopped chipotles in feeble attempts to replicate your secrets
Our fucking salsas
like he gave up time after time 
walked his happy ass salivating 
up the same street that once took him to church 
only to pivot the other direction to a new temple

portraits holy hanging from every space 
in reverie of the father, the sons, and the entirely too happy grins 
of customers satisfied by something so far beyond a torta 
that any foodie network that called you such should be deemed guilty of goddamn blasphemy! Our fucking salsas!

So imagine my surprise when I heard you went and got yourself a new management 

New soft hands rolling in your dough 
Fulton market money keeping the doors open 
wider than the investments opportunities 
vultures snorted when you were North
When you were Humboldt 
When you were home
When you were any other siren call
So far from comfort