I do sit ups on a mat beneath a clock.
Two guys rack weights and argue
about where to find the best lengua
from food trucks throughout the city,
compare sauces, taste, heat,
while above me an infomercial
promises to grow lawns of hair
on a bare mattress
and flashes photos of two individuals,
one before, and the other ever after.
I’ve gotten to 50, my hands folded
beneath my head, shaping voices
into my lengua served between pages of a book.
My goal is 100. I keep pushing myself.