Rock, Cobriela CaTargo '11

Ouzos el poeto sea uno de bs traoaiodores que compaten los sandwiches de iamon y queso d mediodia sentodos en cajones para deiar la silla disponible para usa como una mesa de dmuerzo. Quizes el poeta sea el que ha dejado las palitas de madera enfrente del camion de los trabaadores para que enmarquen el almuerzo de iamon y queso como una pintura. Quizas el ooeta sea el que ha colocado la botella de agua fresca en el parachoques del cqmion. (sfspero aue se aoareciera el ogua en b superficie del pldstico como los pequenas gotitas de sudor are se ban formado en las caas de los trabaiadores? iEscribio sus inciales con el dedo irdice en el vapor de agua en la superficie de la botella? bEso seria poesia?) Quizas el poeta sea ei hombte mirando mi camera desde su puesto al lado de los trabaiadores. iEI es el unico que sabe que estd siendo observado?

iSi rode te observq sos nadie? iSi no le observais a nadie, sos nadie? iSos poeta?

Tanto como tu perspectiva cuando estas parado en un ferrocarril hace que el espacio entre los dos lineas de hierra desaparezca en la distoncia, tu perspectiva en la ciudad hace que cosas desapaezcan tambien. De la puerta de la casa del autor famoso en la calle Yerbal, el grafiti de los poetas de nadie casi no se puede ver. Lo mas cerca que estas a la misma pared, lo mds officii resulta leer el mensaie. dEste grafiti todavia representa a los poetas de nadie si nadie to puede descifrar? ilos poetas todavia representan a los "nadies —a los trabaiadores, a las som bras, a todas las personas callactos—si su esaitura desaparece? iNadie. todavia existis si nadie estd para observer tu ausencia?

Yientras bs trabaadores olmuerzon con el iamon y queso en la silla mientras la sombra de cfg^ien cambiq de forma mientras una muier vestida de azul carnina por una obra cte grafiti Que earned de forma y senticb mil veces con coda paso, un joven mira, desde una ventana un mundo cue no esta permitted accede. Estd lleno de arte y de color, de perspectives distintas, de historiq y de bs obras de ninos que ya no son nihos. El joven pretende sacar una foto de lo Que ~<ji adentro-quizas, piensa la cbmara pueda entrcr donde el no puede—peo to imagen que resulta es una reflexion de el mismo, mirando to ventana Mira, que se puede ver sus qnteoios v su chaoueta con la mono met'do dentro de la bolsilla 60 es el poeta? ?EI poeta observe a bs otros, como si estuviera detrds de uno ventano? iO se miro o si mismo? bEs posible miror los dos cosas a to misma vez?

bPuede ser que un poema este abierto siempre? bAun para los poetas? <iAun para nadie?

The summer after my sophomore year, my internship in San Francisco placed me with a host family, the Koch's, who lived in a posh house in the Pacific Heights neighborhood of San Francisco with bedroom windows looking out to the Colden Cote Bridge. Living with the Koch's took some odustment. I struggled to find any familiarity or parallels of their lifestyle to my mdde class, Mexican immigrant family upbringing. Their house was stacked with old Economist magazines and a Russian literature collection. Their get-togethers were the kind spent reminiscing about days at boarding school or about their kids "finishing up" graduate degrees as if they were sandwiches, or something dse as equally ordinary. I wasn't used to parents that had catch up dinners with college roommates, that even hod college roommates or who started conversations with "So what have you been reading lately?" I wasn't used to people who quoted the New Yorker and made jokes where you had to know what the Marshall Plan was to get the punch line. A pat of it was stimulating. being aound the Kochs kept me on my toes, running through all my nineteen yeas of eduction to catch each political and historical reference and be able to respond adequately. Yet another part of me was screaming fa a conversation that didn't feel like leopardy, where I could talk with ease about the simple things that usually floated aound my head

Even their food seemed faeign and made me realize how vastly different two household eatng styles can be. They bought everything from farmer s makets and small groceries, so their kitchen contained not one generic brand of food No frozen vegetables, no Ritz aackers. no Peter Pan peanut butter, not even Post cereal. Dinner consisted of dishes d never head of. like "Chicken Bouillabaisse" and "Wild Rice Pilcf. I'd often pick slowly at my plate, observing their method of eating to mc*e sure I was keeping up. not cutting things that shouldn't be cut a mixing things that shouldn't be mixed. I studed the way they rolled their linen napkins into ring holders after dnner and put their knife and fork in a

certain cross formation on their plate to signify they were fulL And every time they offered something I hod never head of. I conscientiously hid my mystified expression and as if habitual, said 'Of course."

So naturally, during dinner one evening, I was excited to find corn on the cob was on the menu. Finally, a simple appetizer I was accustomed to. But the excitement was quickly deflated when I saw the lone ingredient on the table only organic butter from a farm nea Main County. During a lull in the conversation. I decided to casually mention:

Its funny, my mother always used to make this with sour aeam and queso bianco. And tobasco sauce."

The Koch's raised their eyebrows in interest. "Really? I've never heard of that". Mrs. Koch said taking a quick glance to her row of cookbooks. ' doubted Betty Crocker had learned of this recipe.

Still, I couldn't really complain. I never enjoyed having dinner at someone's house as much I did with the Koch's, even if their daily menu seemed so unusual to me. Mrs. Koch- a. Kathy. since she refused to take her husbands last name- was a fabulous cook who knew how to mix end match her organic treasures and spiced them perfectly. I'd spend my evenings having long dinners and chats that began with French cheese and Napa Valley wine-tasting aackers and ended with Cerman ginger whole wheat cookies and soy milk.

One nght, what the corn on the cob emerged again, I was surprised to find they had taken my suggestion- only of course, with all natural sour aeam and pamesan cheese as a replacement. Even so. I appreciated their thoughtfulness and had a ball having the closest thing I had eaten to my version of a home-cooked meal in months. I devoured it in seconds, savoring and licking every flake of cheese and sour aeam with o finesse and expertise I had never realized I had until I looked up and saw the Koch's, with sour cream smeaed across their upper lips, cheese stuck to their chins, and looks that seemed as if they were convhced they must be doing this wrong Guiltily, I chuckled to myself. When it came to eating the Mexican way, I was no longer out of place.