Stew at the Corner Stall

Only here, where windows fog

and sidewalk cracks hold winter’s smog.

The scent cuts through the fading day—

cumin, meat, slow simmered sway.

A chipped bowl pressed to cracked wood,

warmth spreading where my cold hands stood.

I don’t taste this stew elsewhere,

its flavor tied to that thin air.

Steam rises, curls, then disappears,

a ghost of kitchens, small and near.

Each bite a memory I can’t forget,

a meal with roots I won’t outstep.