Permanently Closed

I was booking a work trip,

looked up the bus schedule,

clicked the map the way you click something

you don't know you still expect.

Gray banner. Permanently closed.

The taqueria in the station—

no stools, a high counter,

a woman who handed you two tacos

in a grease-stained paper sleeve

without asking what you wanted

because there was only the one thing:

potato, fried until the outside hardened,

green sauce from a squeeze bottle

she kept behind the register.

I ate there nine, maybe ten times.

Always standing. Always in a coat.

Always watching the bus bay

through the smudged glass doors,

the gate numbers turning over.

Someone left a review six months ago

complaining about the wait.

I closed the tab.

The trip is booked.

There's probably a different place to eat now.