Just where the Seminole Trail
sleaks south into Emmet Street
I came on a gunk motel
that flips out this zeugma
to the Scots, or the Scotch-Irish:
SPEND A NIGHT, NOT A FORTUNE.
Here for sure was the seed
of that mobile legume I'd missed—
the yammy, the oral,
the funky platonic—
a cubist tune
like Mozart in trauma
or the jalapeño's call
to that great regular flavor.
Don't you girn it's an ethnic
chutzpah I'm after—that's absurd.
I wouldn't know my own people,
not if Wahoo Chief Robert
were to spout those famous last words
before hitting the dirt.
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