Mr. Cha-Cha’s Chimichangas
I would gladly pay my wages
from the car wash for a week or two
just one more crunchy bite
of Mr. Cha-Cha’s chimichangas
the way he used to make them
down at Venice Beach on Sundays
Even if Anton said they caused the runs
and Pancho claimed he was a perv
Mr. Cha-Cha’s chimichangas
made those Sundays sweeter
than any slammed ’57 Chevy I ever washed
While we stood around his stand
waiting for the hot fat to fry a fresh batch
babes like madonnas in bikinis skated by
skin so smooth you could almost taste it
And we all wanted to taste it
but nobody knew how to get it
except the old man, who would pick
a chick coming at us, her color
no object, and he would give her
that little cha-cha-cha
With that shit-eating smile
and his apron never washed
smeared with chimichanga guts
Mr. Cha-Cha could stop a girl
in her tracks and he’d beg her to try
one of his humble chimichangas
and to tell him what she thought
because those simple boys
were useless, they were so hungry
they would eat dirt and here he winked
at Anton, or Pancho, or me
Whether she fell for him or not
when she skated off and vanished
Mr. Cha-Cha would mutter at us
I gotta do all your work for you
you big bad hefe scaredy cats you
and he’d hand around the fresh hot
chimichangas that burned our tongues
Those afternoons on Venice Beach
were so fine they made your skin shake
Instead of hot female flesh
we plowed into those chimichangas
and they tasted like the sun
baking the beach and sweat
and saucy roller-skating babes
