The Plate

Caribbean platanos in a large white blue rosed plate
Tsssts, Tsssts frying pan stirring on Saturday morning
The aroma of yellow sweetness dancing Bachata

I tried to seal one or two
Sacking San Francisco during the rush
Tried to kidnap those golden coins
But a wooden spoon always swooped down

They were not alone
Tsssts, Tsssts crackling oil everywhere
Two sunny side up eggs were hired guns
Trailed by a wagon of wanted orange juice

We carefully set our plates, cups on the table
Five knives, Five forks, Five cups, Five Plates
My brothers and I tools in hand, napkins ready
Waiting for our reward; she then turned the corner

Nine a.m.
Late for work

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