Like rush hour traffic in fast forward
customers sweep through the restaurant
in the frenzy, servers drop beans on their shoes
and splatter salsa on their shirts
Their hailing hands demand attention
coffee, iced tea, pepsi, lemonade, check please.
they leave nothing but remnants of a floor wallpapered
with napkins and tortilla chips
A soft slam of the door
ushers in a man
a brown shoe on the right foot
a blue tennis shoe on the left
his coats stenched in dirt and sweat
uncombed mats of hair hang on his dirt streaked face
His starving eyes plead for service
through an old pair of glasses
he stands like a wet dog, waiting for attention
Will someone help me?
He sits at a lonely corner shunned from all
except for a window where the world can peer inside
he pulls out two dollars and six cents
in a crumpled wad, like papers to be thrown away
Three tortillas and refried beans, please.
The scent of his body odor
leaves its impression in the air
as he walks to the door labeled
"baño de los hombres"
From the restroom he emerges
dirtless hands and a freshly washed face
to the watching eyes
dirt is all they see
Their stares burn a hole like a magnifying glass
condenses the power of the sun
until there is nothing left but the window
and two dollars and six cents.
