The girl upstairs doesn’t know
How old I am.
I mean old old old
I don’t know either, ... [+]
We are a few scattered
Among the tables, waiting
Or eating out of paper wraps,
While the neon lights
Do nothing to hide
The day's dirt of floors,
The day's pain of people.
Outside the cars stop and move
From traffic light to traffic light,
In Boca, where people await their night.
An older couple sits not far from me,
His knees and back, ground to a halt,
A walker by his side;
His elder wife is aging better,
But what does one know from the outside?
Number 59. That is me.
My classic chicken-sandwich
With small fries awaits me at the counter;
I return to the table and unfold the wrapping paper.
A man walks to the counter and says he was overcharged,
Returns to his companion explaining he was not;
She is not convinced.
Number 60 picks up his food and leaves.
Number 61 seems lost and sad and homeless.
Only two numbers divide us.