• Grant Handgis

Grant Handgis ~ Author/Poet

Pedro's Fish & Chips

My friend and I sit at Pedro's

Fish & Chips restaurant by the

sea, and enjoy our shared use

of the English language, where

our effort of expression

shrinks exponentially, the many

many years of practice, realizing

these are the best seats in the

house, with no partitions

to Sabalo street, as we're nearly

touching the corner tele, which

is absolutely magnetic to young

chicas, in groups of two

for a better lock on courage

and complex strategies of course

and they could go on! Such

language from these sweet delicate

young ladies, oozing sophistication

and alluring perfumes, yet

deadly serious, bent on ironing out

an understanding of something

damned different from her

own, now ratcheted to double

what it was, and unlike

the indifferent gato's

ugly, yet delicate dismissal

with the flippant twitch of a tail

to make it final,

she diced him up,

like kitty chow

nails extended, hissing rage

che-chawed him like a cornered

cat's hello to the face of the

lead dog, stalking off

before the crash

from the hang-up reached our ears


The prancing horses outside

the cubierta were ready for

battle, with nostrils flared,

and primed from urgent stroking

of the boys, racing about

and getting high on the fumes

of the attention, and with the

shifting whim of the summer breeze

aromas dueled, of T-Bone steak

and freshly heaped reminders on a cobbled

street of conquistadors prancing

with their mounts

Pedro’s Fish & Chips was the restaurant just below the apartment I was staying in, and the place where I took most of my meals. It was open on three sides, looking out onto the main avenue through north Mazatlan, where life waltzed by in a beautiful procession of daily life. Gus Gus’ sidewalk cafe was but a hundred steps to the north, and the seawall where I sat each late afternoon, and sometimes evenings, was right across the street. What else did I need?


g. Michael Handgis Photography


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