They were probably illegals, aliens,
And they stood arm and arm
Romantically intertwined and speaking Spanish.
The smells of sweat and onions were laced inseparable.
His hair had not been washed in over a week,
And her roundness was doughy like a tortilla,
And they laughed to each other with coos,
And she fiddled with the ring which had been his grandmothers,
And they couldn’t make up their minds on how to spend their dinner allotment.
Or maybe they didn’t care about the details of their date
Because they were too distracted by their love.
The oriental—the Asian—immigrant behind the counter
Smiled and patiently waited for them to make an order.
And she watched them,
From behind them.
Fumbling with her Dooney and Bourke,
Trying to find her Visa card.
Annoyed by the non-Americans,
And a little jealous.
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