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Morning
There were the complaints—
my bitter disgust
with the early hour (7):
my temporary friend
at the coffee counter
of a smoke-filled café
heard me and patiently
listened.
He never once mentioned it.
His mind rowed down the deep black river
of memories
and into the past.
The crushed legs.
The drip . . . drip . . . drip
of his own blood landing in his eye,
leaking from a twisted, cut hand
limply hanging over his head,
hours . . . seemed like days;
then the cold morning air,
his face beginning to freeze
into a scarlet slush.
Final moments, he had thought.
Death, he had thought.
And yet, there he sat alive
and listening
While I damned the day!
He never mentioned this to me,
but he did manage to crack a smile.