Burger King, Wednesday, 9:30 p.m.
Rain puddles on newly cleaned windows,
dark drops dripping
down my tangled brown
locks.
Fluorescent light negates
the falling night,
while bright colors flash
in grease-stained air.
I watch him
in the booth across the room,
white and brown beard,
black glasses,
hiding the wrinkles
in his worn face.
Over jeans and faded orange t-shirt,
he wears
a shapeless robe,
frayed rope about his waist,
wet, muddy sneakers.
He holds his hamburger wrapped
so it won’t drip on his newspaper,
while I drown fries in ketchup
and sip chocolate through a plastic straw.
I think he’s homeless, crazy,
then stop myself.
Maybe he’s a monk,
taking a break from
the pious life
to taste the greasy wonder of fast food.
Maybe he’s a radical,
making a statement
off the picket line,
looking for shelter now
from the cold rain.
His existence
destroys my reality.
What does he have to say
that my ears refuse to hear?
How many others dismiss the sanity
of this man who is more sane
than all the rest?
I wipe my hands,
leaving a trail of grease
on white paper,
and watch his reflection
through the falling rain.
(c) 1998 Ann Lesley Hamvas
