It’s Only Raining

Meanwhile, the #71 lingers, then leaves.
That guy with a wide bandage over his nose,
here at 5 am, does school before he works,
big shoulders sloped to a book.

The two cops nod to him, one tall, one wide,
under imitation tulip lamps
on cracked brown counter stools.
  Why do I care?

   Because of their weight, how they carry it,
slouched, thick-thighed, but feet on the floor,
a little alert, mostly at ease. And the vinyl
seats splitting, accommodating
the wide hind petals, men.

My tabletop, a maple swirl
one inch thick and washable. Not real
maple, that’s the point
that someone wanted to evoke it.
Comforting, they must have thought.

   I presume that I’m the interloper, voyeur.
But what if I’m part of it?

The ex-marine at the counter leans
Toward the waterfall that is the blond
waitress, high cheekbones, high plans,
who lifts her cup to his
earning tips for a real house someday.

Eric, “glow-in-the-dark bike shirt,” shuffles in
with before-sunrise sunglasses. As usual, I assume.
One damp leaf on the floor flips up
tracked in on a boot, stem arching.

That’s it, the way it’s all related,
  unnoticed. Someone will sweep later.

He wants the Grand Slam: Eggs bacon
spuds and toast, no cakes.

On the radio another species is shrunk
in a jaunty morning voice.
   Not dire.

    Everything works out,
says one painter to the other, adding
packet after packet of sugar to his marriage.

  I can hardly eat, I’m so full
of love for those
   who don’t know I love them.

It’s only raining. Toast is buttered.
The sky grows lighter, slightly.