entitled to a free wallet

and each wallet contains a

little surprise.

most of the men are

between 30 and 55,

going to fat,

many of them in walking

shorts.

they have gone stale in mid-life,

flattened out.

men like

these don’t even

deserve death,

these little walking

whales,

only there are so

many of

them,

in the urinal,

in the food lines,

the species has managed to

survive

in a most limited

sense

and when you see

so many of them

like that,

up close,

there but not there,

breathing, farting,

commenting,

waiting for the thunder

that will not be heard,

waiting for the charging

white horse of

Glory,

waiting for the lovely

female who will not

arrive,

waiting to WIN,

waiting for the great

dream to

engulf them

you can only wonder.

they clomp in their

sandals,

gulp at hot dogs

animal style,

gulping the

meat.

they complain about

losing,

blame the jocks,

drink green

beer.

the parking lot is

jammed with their

mortgaged

cars.

the jocks mount once

again for another

race,

the men press

toward the betting

windows

mesmerized,

fathers and non-fathers,

Monday is waiting

for them,

and this is the last

big lark.

but at the same time

in that same place

the horses are

totally

beautiful.

it is shocking how

beautiful they

are

at that time,

in that place,

their life shines

through them:

miracles happen,

even in

hell.

I decide to stay for

one more

race.

coffeeshop

she has served me and I am

eating,

“is everything all right?”

she asks.

“yes, thank you…”

“more coffee?”

“all right…”

I am reading the paper

and eating.

“cream?” she asks.

“no, thanks…”

she pours the

coffee.

5 minutes pass.

she is back

“is everything all right?”

“yes.”

“more coffee?”

“no.”

“are you going to try

one of our desserts?”

“no, thank you…”

“come on, you only

live once!”

“yes, I know…”

she leaves again.

but not for long.

“you care for more

rolls?”

“no, thank you…”

“did you like the

turkey?”

“yes.”

“you ought to try

our roast beef.”

“you mean,

now?”

“no, next time.”

she just stands there.

“I saw you in here the

other day with your

daughter.”

“that was my wife.”

“oh, you’re married…”

“yes.”

“more coffee?”

“all right.”

“you take cream?”

“no cream.”

she comes back and

pours the

coffee.

then leaves.

I try it.

it’s unbearably

strong.

they don’t clean the

coffee maker.

it’s time to leave,

I need the bill.

I look for the waitress.

I don’t see her

anywhere.

I read the paper:

mass murderer boils

the heads for

soup.

the bus boy comes

by,

picks up my

plate,

leaves the bad

coffee.

then he comes back

carrying the coffee

container.

“more coffee?”

“no, thanks, have you seen

the waitress?”

“no.”

“where is she?”

“I don’t know.”

he walks off.

I sit waiting.

nobody appears.

I get up from the

table to go look for

the waitress.

I find her just outside

the kitchen,