A long time ago I needed to get some legal forms to an office a few miles away. It was winter, snowing, skiddy roads. My car slid right off the street into an ice-encrusted snow island between two lakes.

Car after car drove past. I was about to trudge home to get help when an ancient station wagon pulled off the road, hazards flashing. Five Spanish-speaking grinning men leaped out, ran behind my car and motioned me to put it in drive. They pushed me back onto the street, still laughing, waved, and jumped back in their beater.

When I think of the word “helper” it is those men who come shimmering up in my mind.

Love Poem to Taco Bell, by Rebecca Bornstein

Full-on, no bullshit, no irony, yes Taco Bell 
where I can almost always pull together the 
cash to get dinner, at my brokest 
scrounging up enough change  
for the pillowy warmth of a bean burrito,  
extra red sauce, meant to be eaten  
behind the steering wheel in a parking lot 
or while driving, the wrapper crumpled up  
and thrown on the passenger side floor, 
leftover napkins stashed in the glovebox.  
In high school we’d ditch seventh period  
and drive 10 miles down I-5 to the closest town  
big enough to have a Taco Bell,  
where we’d house as much food as we could 
pay for, lounging in the pinkpurplegreen vinyl  
or the metal swivel chairs we’d knock knees under,  
giving each other dares around fire sauce,  
hoarding packets of mild sauce to douse everything.  
And forever, my love to the Taco Bell employees,  
who took my order when I was drunk or high or crying,  
who listened and fed me without too much judgment  
through high school and college and my thirties,  
and a special love for the two who pushed my car  
through the drive-thru, once, when it broke down  
mid-order. I couldn’t afford a tow until payday.  
They let me leave it in the lot. 
This is how I know labor is entitled to all it creates,  
and that given a chance most of us are helpers, 
we want to help people and to be helped  
by people, amidst the absolute and delicious  
loveliness of ordinary things. 

Click here for more information on Rebecca Bornstein. Today’s poem was first published in April 2026 by the Academy of American Poets. 
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My podcast: Words by Winter