DAVID ANSON LEE

CARTOGRAPHER OF TACOS

Every Thursday
he occupied the same corner stool
in the same dive bar
with a spiral notebook
and three sharpened pencils.
He reviewed tacos.
Not online.
Not for a magazine.
Not for followers.
For posterity.
Carnitas.
Al pastor.
Barbacoa.
Lengua.
He awarded bonus points
for salsa that made him weep.
One night I asked
who would ever read the notebook.
He considered this
with the seriousness
usually reserved for astronomy.
Maybe nobody.
Maybe a grandkid.
Maybe aliens.
Then he took another bite,
studied eternity,
and awarded the taco
nine and a half stars.
Outside,
traffic hurried toward somewhere.
Inside,
he continued mapping
the edible world.

NEEDLE DROP

The record store survives
between a vape shop
and a tax office,
which feels less like business
than defiance.
Inside,
dust drifts through sunlight
like tiny planets
searching for an orbit.
A teenager buys Fleetwood Mac.
A retired mechanic
hunts for Johnny Cash.
The owner knows exactly
where everything lives,
even the albums
everyone forgot.
Outside,
algorithms multiply.
The future refreshes itself
every few seconds.
Inside,
a turntable lowers its needle.
A faint crackle.
Then music.
The sound of time
removing its wristwatch
for an hour.

THE LAST WORKING PAY PHONE ON THE GULF

The pay phone stands
outside a bait shop
that sells beer,
ice,
boiled peanuts,
and T-shirts assuring sharks
that humans taste terrible.
Nobody uses it.
Even the gulls seem
slightly embarrassed by it.
Yet every morning
an old shrimp captain
parks his truck,
lifts the receiver,
and listens.
Not for a dial tone.
For ghosts.
A wife gone twenty years.
A son somewhere in Nevada.
A brother who could repair anything
except his own liver.
He listens awhile,
hangs up, buys a Dr Pepper,
and drives away.
The pay phone remains.
Green with salt.
Weathered by hurricanes,
summer tourists,
and decades of waiting.
Patient as a lighthouse.
Faithful as an old dog.
Listening for a century
that has already sailed.

MOTEL POOL, SUMMER OF 1987

The sign promised
COLOR TV
ICE MACHINE
POOL
with equal conviction.
The pool was kidney-shaped.
The water
the exact color
of cheap turquoise jewelry.
Someone always carried
a boom box.
Someone always played
The Beach Boys.
Someone always forgot sunscreen.
My father floated on his back
holding a can of Schlitz.
My mother read a paperback
whose title she no longer remembers.
I chased dragonflies.
For three days,
the entire universe consisted of
chlorine,
sunlight,
and vending-machine peanuts.
No one knew it then,
but happiness was happening.
Not the cinematic kind.
Not the kind people post.
The motel kind.
Temporary.
Unremarkable.
Perfect.
The sort that vanishes
before you understand
you are living inside it.

AFTER THE WEATHER CLEARS

The beach looked looted.
Umbrellas overturned.
Coolers missing.
Flip-flops orphaned.
Far offshore,
the sky still muttered
its complaints.
Then an old woman
dragged a beach chair
back to the shoreline.
Not carefully.
Not heroically.
Simply because
that was where she wanted it.
She sat.
Opened a mystery novel.
Ignored the wreckage.
Ignored the forecast.
Ignored the remaining clouds.
The sea rolled in.
The sea rolled out.
A pelican stitched
a line across the water.
The sun returned
one bright piece at a time.
And for a moment
the entire world seemed designed
for this:
a chair,
a book,
a little sunlight,
and the wisdom
to leave the rest alone.

David Anson Lee is a physician, philosopher, poet, and member of the Oglala Lakota Nation who was born on the Pine Ridge Indian Reservation in South Dakota. His work has appeared in Right Hand Pointing, Braided Way, Eunoia Review, Ink Sweat & Tears, Silver Birch Press, The Orchards, Mouthful of Salt, Journal of Undiscovered Poets, and numerous other literary journals. He lives in Texas and writes poetry that explores memory, place, identity, history, and the unexpected grace found in ordinary moments.