by Marjorie Saiser
Today I spend money. Doodad this, doodad that
in a town in the sun on the border. I sit
outdoors with my doodad dog
at the coffee shop. Time passes.
A man casts a shadow across my latte,
asks if he can borrow my lighter for a minute.
I have none but he talks to me anyway,
generous with conversation,
his tattooed hands giving my dog some
good attention. I can't see his eyes,
only the dark of his sunglasses. His unlit cigarette
bobs in his lips as he talks. This,
or something, reminds me of you. He says
the people here are nice. He loves it here,
says it's way better than the big city; it's all
money anyways; every time he left the house
it was forty bucks. He sees someone
across the street, waves his arm,
shouts: Jack, I'm free!
He rises. He's gone.
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