The mortality of waitresses

The mortality of wai
tresses, of bu
sboys, conven
ience st
or
e cl
erks.
The loving memories of bic
yclists, of pedis
trians, of the driv
er in the Ford passing me on the I-5 at 4:12 in the afternoon on a Saturday when I am tired from traveling, focused on the talk on the radio on my phone, wondering only why this man is passing me on the right, my only thought of him.
 The mortality of wai
tresses.
The finite life of a par
king enforc
ement o
fficer.
The fleeting moments of a groce
ry stor
e ca
rt wrangl
er.
Of a mai
lman.
Of my neighbo
r.
The forgotten plans of the ma
n who cooked my food, the ma
n who rented me a bicycle, who caught a football on the beach as I rode past, who traveled from Brazil to serve beer at a sports bar, who bent down to pick up his dog's shit as I averted eye-contact, who ordered the slice of pizza just before mine.
The mortality of wai
tresses.

Of billions.
The secrets they must have. The lives I don't notice.

The infinence of these labarythine paths. So many directions not taken.

An Old Neighorhood, A Former Place

It was a small world: Little Debbie snack cakes, quarter bags of Cheetos, old saltine crackers, oversized beers, ice cream, teenagers who knew his name, addicts, a conceptual barter system, consistently wrong change. The ends of a universe that were measurable, visible from the security camera behind the counter, daunting, suffocating.

It is the poison cup. It is too late.

It does not end in nothing. 

It ends calling forth to begin again. It ends with a promise, 400 years old.