3 A.M.

A kid with a deflated red balloon

peeks over the booth

at Village Inn

at three in the morning.

His second-hand

Power Ranger

hand-me-down t-shirt

features a ten-year old

grape juice

stain.

His eyes -

bloodshot and heavy

with the weight

of dependent parents -

meet mine.

His hands -

calloused

like a thirty-year old

construction worker's -

grip the balloon

with white knuckles.

he asks:

"May I please borrow your ketchup?”

I oblige

and hand him the bottle.

He thanks me,

hands it to his father,

and returns to his french fries.

Reviews

[Coyote Poetry]

Hard to escape the poor. Old world need help. I believe we need to look at what the Government did in the sixties. Families need a house and food. We can spend 1.2 trillion on war. But welfare of people is not high priority. A powerful poem. Great description.
Coyote