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the shrunken grey man weeps at the next table, into his steel wool overcoat
the ponytailed young man approaches, wipes his hands on the white apron
he should have ordered at the counter, he informs, that’s the way it works
he should have stood in line – what would he like?
the old man shakes his head, looks down in silence
the young man steps back behind the counter, soon returns
puts down a smoking cup and muffin, nods at the old man, touches his shoulder
“on me,” he says, picks up
some dirty dishes from another table
puts them on his tray, wipes down the table
waves to a smiling girl outside the window

1990s