Poems, Personals, and Commentary

At the Cafe

At the cafe/grill — a Monday.
It’s slow at 9 a.m. —
Not the bustle of a Saturday.

Low, soft voices
Of Spanish and English;
The frying pan sizzling.

We’re the privileged —
A day off,
When everyone else works.

At the other cafe
I saw a man outside in the cold,
His head in his hand,
Mumbling to himself.

I feel so helpless sometimes
In wanting to help others.

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