^{for P.C.}

My friend grieves while we search 
for an authentic experience, like tacos 
in hand-made corn tortillas. On Zarzamora, 
Letitia’s is busy, so it must be good and real. 
Early April—Lent specials in cursive 
on posters outside. We park near
an unexpected cluster of purple flowers, 
short and wild like a sudden storm. 
We kneel. I think of Anthony of Padua, 
the patron saint of lost things. Both of us 
draw closer. The flowers speak to us. They say—
existence and persistence are the same thing. 
              A brisk spring wind brings sweet 
              peppers and onions, oil and fish.