I go ahead and eat alone, too hungry 
to wait for my hubby who must work late.
I’m holding a bag of ice to my knee
after whacking it against
one of those hard railing things 
you see around the base of trees on a fancy block—
What is their purpose? Prevent dogs 
from digging? A stream of urine
can reach the bark easily, so? But this is not
what I want to tell you about or how
I hurt my knee trying to snap
the picture of a delivery man on his e-bike
crossing under an ever-shifting garland of steam
as the streetlight took a glowing bite
out of it. Or even why I clocked out of my job
angry at everybody and all the bad
decisions that keep me moored
to that desk. But—
Who isn’t mad at their lot? (I know,
speak for yourself.) The thing is, today,
with all my family elders gone,
my sore knee a sore child, 
I need an adult to soothe me.
Ok, who I really want is my aunt.
My parents would have had the wrong
“energy,” as they say. My aunt would
apply ice on my knee the way she’d take
a hot needle to drain my infected toe, as coldly
efficient as she was tender. And a little tough.
I loved her and her husband,
my gentle, former prize fighter of a tío.
I loved the name of their street—
Navarro. Their whole barrio.
The streetlamp reflected
in the cobblestoned intersection 
where Manuel, Mario and I
looked up through the trees
hoping to tell UFOs from real stars.

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Image: “TARDIS Troubles” by Bill Cawley