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.

thank you.