Nothing Better

Sunday mornings

were fried chicken and pancakes 

(not waffles), but only after

the breakfast rush, and only after 

the fevered peddling, left. right. left

right, below minute interval

rumble of the train tracks above

my head. Ohlone Way, my way for 

a year, maybe more, grease and idle 

chatter, scoldings and red, chafed hands,

there was no love or hate, maybe 

the sometimes errant desperation

or dream. This morning I remembered

ten years back, maybe more. Sunday 

mornings were fried chicken and pancakes.