The Food Bank
He's in the line for a quick pick up,
it's early in the morning and not much of a line
and he needs some milk and toilet papers, says
“I've had better days, this shall pass.”
He's said that line to himself a hundred times, sometimes
with an Irish Bostonian accent that advertises his background.
“If they have eggs too, get a couple of dozens,” he reminds himself,
even though he stopped eating eggs to lower his cholesterol.
“Hey check this out. They're giving a 25 dollar coupon, maybe I can get
a carton of camel's cigarette," until he realized he 'd missed his chances,
setting into a state of quiet panic – “and what if they ran out of milk too,
can't have black coffee, never.” Thank god he was not a diabetic hyperdermic like the fellow ahead of him, who held onto his cane anxiously, cursing under his lips at the parade of cars. “Those sons of es drive luxury cars begging for food, ain't right brother.”
He agreed. “They ought to be shopping at Cosco” though their abundance assumed desperation.
“Amigo move over,” a heavy-set lady screamed pushing her cart forward undeterred, plowing through the line with meshes of anger and energy.
But he didn't care, thinking he was in waiting rooms with buckets of dental pain, the kind of places patience survives, pulled down his face mask for a deep breath, standing next to a German automobile,
admiring the driver's audacity to risk it on the highway. His luck a rain started and wind blew off his old hat, as if God was sitting on an upper-story chuckling with whirls of irony., watching his beloved children riding a ferry to
nowhere.
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