At Woolworth's Lunch Counter
a man sits watching the waitresses work,
his cigarette smoke encircling him
in words like "retired" and "regular".
Every once in awhile he lifts some apple pie
to his mouth in slow motion
and "regular" changes to "rapture".
You know he comes here often. You watch him
smile and nod to a sweet faced woman,
one who's as wide as two people,
carries her breasts like twin babies,
tight in the navy blue uniform but
tenderly too, waddling past him with empty plates.
His smoke draws a heart in the air
and you agree - clearly she is the pulsebeat here,
the cook, the cleaner of dishes, the girl
who covers two stations
so the rest of them
can go on their breaks.
You see a heavy woman with sore feet,
unaware that she's being watched,
inching along behind the counter,
as if she were walking on hot coals
trying her best to draw energy from the pain.
And watching her is a man without ritual,
one with too much time on his hands,
one in need of a sacrifice.
So he comes here, with his gaze
sharp and fierce as a votive light,
burning for the madonna of tuna melts.
You can almost touch his reverence,
circumscribed as it is in soft white smoke.
It lights up the empty glasses and glazes the doughnuts.
the hot dogs glisten as they turn in their silver beds
and things go better with Coke.
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