Making Tacos

July, just dusk, and muggy as hell. Thank God

the central air still works. I’ve shredded chicken,

mixed in black beans, onions, peppers, cumin.

Heating it to meld the flavors. Ann’s

upstairs on Zoom, and Trey’s zonked in the living

room. The warm dishwasher’s gurgle swirls

below my Coltrane playlist. Did I mention

that I’m drinking beer? You know: it helps.

I wish for little more than what I have.

Desire is the root of all our suffering,

right? We try to simplify ourselves

to nothing. Fine. But it’s impossible.

If we’re alive, there’s human residue:

A smooth then screechy streaming saxophone.

Aroma from the frying pan. This poem.