Anything can be a poem.
Even typing the number for my to-go
airport burrito into a note on my phone,
which would in itself be a fine start,
if not remarkable in any way,

if not for the fact that, as I waited,
I watched a single person womaning
the grill. No one stood behind the counter
to take an order, this being the 21st century
and only some oldsters like me wanting
to use cash.

So I got with the program and stepped up
to the little kiosk that younger people use
with such ease and followed the simple
directions to order.

How much easier things are for some
of us travelers who can fly and cross
borders with ease. How much more
challenging for the fast-talking,
Spanish-speaking woman tending
the grill and others who have emerged
from the kitchen carrying metal tubs
of food, laboring, I imagine, for low wages,
living on their dreams.

Where did their people come from?
How easy was it for them to move from
one land to another that appeared
to promise so much? How many of
those promises have come true?
How many will be taken away?