Dark mahogany.
Clean white table cloth.
Waiter made us wait.
Moved like a slow sloth.

Such a demeanor
of complete defeat
about this young man
where we came to eat.

We leaned in to hear
what the soft voice said.
“Have not slept for days,
don’t know why I’m here.
Can I get you bread?”

Our patience he thanked.
“We are understaffed,
might get orders wrong,
I will do my best.”
And then we all laughed.

To bread we said “please”
and some water too.
We are, half of us,
sudden refugees
perhaps we know what
you are going through.

Oh how, I hope not,
disruption and loss,
discomfort and fear.
Post traumatic stress
an angry orange glow.
Dislocation cost.

“Your anxiety
is temporary.
I just can not sleep.
To lower the lids
of my tired eyes
is hard and scary.”

“Two friends were shot dead
at the Boarderline.
They were so alive
when I last saw them.
An angry orange glow
always on my mind.”

“The drive was awful,
from work I don’t shrink.
Two hours to get here,
ready for a drink?”

“Orange fool feeding hate
like wind on dry sage,
like guns for losers,
an angry orange rage.”

On leaving the restaurant a deep voice behind us said, “Thank you” as someone held the door for him.  He was a tall fireman with a big mustache.

I said, “Thank you!”  He said, “Thank you for saying that!”

(Photo credit, Holden Finley)

1 thought on “FUEL ON A HILL

  1. Wonderful. Thoughtful.


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