Clouds of Incense like Tobakk

This being a Sunday,
and the Good Lord not having provided
either a gathering of like-minded nod-offs in the vicinity
or a hall with inscrutable symbols and smells
appropriate to our non-golfing system of beliefs,
Mari and I decided to drive south
past Green Valley, where the saved
have saved a Titan missile silo,
to the village of Tubac. For lunch.

It is almost the end of the Snowbird
seasonal migration southwestward where,
after circling about salsa in search of catsup,
the snow melting on the south forty back home
beckons them northeast again
armed with tales of eighty degree days
and turquoise bracelets and amulets.

Tubac comes alive in the brutal
forty degree winter nights of the Sonora,
and thins out when the SUVs and Mercedes,
armed with oil changes and refrigerant
and thick jackets turn east onto I-10.

Putting our shabby, thin veneer of sarcasm aside,
what is not to like about Shelby's Bistro
on the deck next to the dry wash, shaded from April sun,
with yellow blossoms as far and one can see,
and green all the way to the ground?

[To answer my own question:
perhaps the conversation of the supercilious
at the next table, impressing each other.
It is time for them to get back to Illinois.]

I say, "Tubac",
and I cannot prevent my head
from thinking "tobakk".
Tubac has nothing to do
with the Norwegian word for tobacco,
except when we are there,
so to ease the dischord
I drink Mexican beer.
Tubac might mean "black",
and "where the water comes out",
so I drink Negra Modelo.

Ours is a fanciful religion
on a Sunday in April,
and scorn is inappropriate
when the faithful are this happy.

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