You sit in the heart of Arcadia
With tongue not native to this land.
In Tortas y Tacos New Sunrise
Saying words most don’t understand.
But the owners, they speak your language
Here on the Oeste side of the state
Where the Tamarack grows
And the river is young
In its march toward its fate
To the gulf of your home far from here
This Norte portion of River.
Even in this place where any hope
Seems little more than a glimmer,
It may not look it—but trust me—we like
Your unexpected face
To more than me,
You seem to be
So foreign to this place.