Come for the scenery, stay for the food.
we sit
the two of us
at a table outside
on this warm evening
there’s not much to be said
because we’ve spent our words
and must wait for others
to come forth
and they will
because they always do
so we listen
to the birds flitting
in the trees
and the cars driving by
and to the people around us
talking
and we hear words spoken
but not sentences
and not stories
their words are simply
sounds that soften
the edges of our silence
the nothingness
is peace itself
and it holds us still
and a bird lights on the ground
next to our feet
and cocks its head
at the next table
a young girl offers the bird a crumb
and the young man who is with her smiles
and though they talk
we hear nothing
but their easy voices
and we sit
the two of us
at a table outside
on this warm evening
copyright 2018, joseph e bird
He is severely disabled.
It’s obvious just from watching him for a few minutes.
His walk looks painful. He knees come together in an angle that is not in the least bit natural. He stops, and then one of his knees moves out in the opposite direction, poking sideways through his filthy trousers.
He’s picking up something in the parking lot. A stray coin, maybe? A valuable scrap of something. He moves on, slowly. Near a light pole, he stops and puts his collection on top of the concrete base of the light pole. Some he tosses back onto the parking lot.
I’ve seen him around town before. One Sunday he just walked out in the middle of traffic to cross the street. His disability is not only physical, it’s mental.
We’re in line at KFC. Yes, we eat there a lot. Good chicken.
This particular KFC is not in the affluent part of town. Not that there is an affluent part of my town. But it’s near the homeless shelter. Near St. Mark’s where lunches are provided to those in need. Near the bridges, where some choose to make their homes.
Should we buy him something to eat? my wife asks.
I don’t know.
I didn’t know if he would take it. Didn’t know if he would just cuss us. Didn’t even know if he really needed it.
We place our order. Just for us.
At the window, we ask if they know anything about the guy wandering the parking lot.
That’s John, she says. We give him something to eat every day.
She asks us to pull up while our order is prepared.
John’s off to the side of us now, emptying his pockets on the sidewalk. Just stuff. Rocks. Dirt. Who knows what.
She brings our food.
John, are you ready to eat?
He nods. He mills around a bit before they go inside.
One other time I was inside at this store and there was an older gentleman with a cane. He was not as bad off as John. Seemed like he had all his faculties, as they say, but life had not been generous to him. The manager asked what he wanted. A cola, he answered. He reached in his pocket for some change. The manager waved him off.
Don’t worry about it.
The folks working at this KFC are probably making minimum wage, maybe a little more. They don’t have a lot of money to spare. And the store itself is probably working on razor-thin margins. Giving away food is not in their best interests.
And yet they do.
Let others fight about borders and immigration and gun control and geopolitics.
Our neighbor is in need.
Our neighbor needs something to eat.
Not quite dawn.
Early morning drive
to get to where i’m going.
Which is where?
Doesn’t matter.
Just another destination
The gray skies start to lighten.
No dramatic sunrise.
Just light, and a little more.
Ninety nine miles down the road.
Around the bend.
Down the valley.
Up the hill.
Then the golden streaks
shining on the brilliant greens.
Bright highlights and deep shadows
and fog nestled
in the forest.
For a moment
maybe two.
.
A meeting.
Just business.
Keep the project moving.
What city?
Doesn’t matter.
Just another job.
They go their way.
I go mine.
Looking for lunch.
Walking the streets.
A pawn shop.
Liquor store.
Check cashing.
The next block is different.
A coffee shop.
A Mediterranean restaurant.
Great food and friendly server.
It doesn’t get any better.
For a moment.
Maybe two.
.
Day is dimming.
The tires are humming.
Got to get back home.
Where?
Doesn’t matter.
Home is home.
The radio is droning.
Two hours of talk
numbs the mind.
Even the music
that always brings relief
has been playing
much too long.
Then Scott sings.
Salina,
I’m as nowhere as I can be.
The most beautiful music.
And all is well.
For a moment.
Maybe two.
copyright 2017, joseph e bird
Joseph E Bird 