to the waiter at boogaloos wednesday morning
whose hair hangs in his eyes:
tired. so tired. too much dying and nearly dying has been near.
the music was gentle, and good. the morning fog was still close, a stranger quietly brought me food and filled my glass.
it all seemed somehow so tender that i found my eyes damp at the table, and i couldn’t say thank you, because i would have cried.
sometimes you just bring someone breakfast, and it saves them, and you don’t even know.