waves, smiles. On the drive,
a paper bag steams in a two-wheeled cart,
the kind old people push to bus stops.
In winter, the sweet ones, with raisins,
hot and precious in foil,
do more than the hearth for the inside of a man.
In summer she makes them with peaches
from old man Rodriquez’s tree,
sunshine dripped with honey.
When her cart’s empty
before she goes home to work,
she reads a little book
at a bus stop on the Avenida.