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.
clarakatalin 
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