I will never taste another bean burrito
without tasting the innumerable laughs we had
last summer,
at Taco Bell.

You ordered a bean burrito;
no onion.
Cheesy fiesta potatoes;
no cheese, no sour cream.
Standing behind you in line,
my saliva expands in my mouth
as I inhale the greasy stench
of a gordita crunch.

How could I know
you don’t mix dairy and meat?
I miss eating bacon cheeseburgers
with you at the local diner.
The juice from the ground beef
squirts out the sides of our mouths.

You instead dwell at temple
early in the morning,
the glare of the sun
creeps up on you.
Shadows give way to light,
which reveals the rows of empty card chairs.
How you wish to be free
to feast at the bell
until midnight or later.

The whiff of your flatulence
from the innumerable burritos
you consumed
only reminds you
of the two-foot-long receipt
we accumulated,
at taco bell.