It doesn't matter that it's snowing in April,
and it doesn't matter that the wallet is scant.
Outside these windows, snow is blowing,
but inside the light is yellow and the table
is covered with food — beans, corn, chicken,
tortillas. Around the table are the cooks
and the guests and the host, being guested
at her own table. There is root beer, dark
beer, ginger ale, vodka and orange juice,
salsa and avocados. There are limes.

There are old friends and new family.
There is goddaughter, laughing. The man
who cooked the meal is big and tattooed
from the neck down. His earlobes are
the size of condiment bowls. He should be
fierce. He should be frightening. Instead,
he fills the bellies of these recent strangers
with chile verde, sour cream and salsa.
It's cold out there. It snows, then hails,
then rains. In here, it's crowded, and warm.