Playa Flamenco

Pad Thai was served at hot dog stands 

that summer in Bangkok, Canadian flag sewn 

on my grey backpack so I wouldn’t be 

mistaken 

for the elephant I climbed without its consent. 

He was the Empire State Building and I

had paid to see the view from the top. 

Up close, stray hairs 

on wrinkled leather skin, resembled 

my bubbie, who’s face I cradled between the 

bosom of my adolescent hands 

every Wednesday morning at Delly Boys,

where the waitress knew to have black coffee

and a piece of Rye bread toasted with 

no butter, waiting on the table.

My grandmother was a lifetime member 

of weight watchers, not because she had 

a weight problem. She lived with my obese aunt 

Sylvie and they were 

highly competitive. “I never had a problem 

with wrinkles” she’d say, because she didn’t

have a problem 

with her linen creased face, soft and milky

as Playa Flamenco, at the dawning 

of her sunset years.

August 7, 2019