Walking looking
so pale under arches—
cold and long past
window after
window—I notice I've
become the silent
witness—to
my own
translucent
reflection gradually
beginning to brighten and
fill-in again;
not through its
participation—but more
surely through being
imbued—
with each passing
streak of of their
variously
orange and
yellowish faces—
each one of them
hunkered-
down low in a tall booth—and each one
of them hunched
so wonderfully
warm and greedy—over its own
furiously
red-
napkin blotted
tray
of solid-
golden food.
