There’s a guy in our town who showers Mondays under a waterhose
in back of the local country club. His supper is half-eaten
sandwiches and hardened fries scraped from China plates.
Some days he gets a jelly doughnut with one or two bites gone;
he’s never minded sharing.
He dined with the mayor just last week on leftover sea bass and tiramisu.
He thinks a lucky omen is to spot a partial birthday cake still in its box
happy birthday, madam, he prays before partaking, and pats his mouth after
with a lipstick-smeared over-the-hill cocktail napkin.
At the end of our shift, we waitresses drink and linger at the service door,
raising a glass to our hometown boy from a half-drunk
bottle of Dom Perignon, while wedding guests stagger to their cars,
and the moon shines full and golden on us all.