Day 3 Poem


In the Greek restaurant
off the trendy district’s rump,
I eat Mediterranean.
A present for my daughter,
invokes Christmas on my table.
A book about artisan bread,
in a silver bag.
He walks in slippery with city,
an open coat, holes in his t-shirt,
and asks about falafel.
The owner sneers.
He removes some balled up
bills from his front pocket
to prove he can pay.
Falafel’s great, I said.
The owner sizes me up
out of the corner of his eye.
I tear off a nice sized piece
of pita bread.
Go ahead, I can’t eat
the whole thing.
Lettuce and sauce
spill down his hand.
He nods and chews,
orders fried fish.
The owner retreats behind
swinging doors.
The place is deserted.
He edges near me in new
confidence. Eyes my package
with indecent interest.
Been Christmas shopping?
What’d you buy?
I say it’s a cookbook.
He tells me I look fifteen years
younger than I am. Asks
where I live.
I’m married, I say.

Why don’t you wear a ring?
I’m fifty-three and would like
to be real, but my Got fat,
opens the wrong door.
Now, we’re on my body.
I sure would like to visit you,
he says percolating.
A window washer
pulls up outside. Rinses
brown film off the window.
Before I can get out of my seat,
the window washer packs up.
My foolish sandwich stays
on its plate. I rush out the door,
duck into the shop next door.
He follows me outside.
Looks to the left and right.
I hold my breath against
another kitchen counter.
He crosses the street at a diagonal.
His coat flaps.

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