Some days the words don't work.
Some days you can't find your lighter
your jeans
your wallet
your car keys
Some days you wake up in a cool puddle of red and wax poetic about
Some days.
Some days you just want breakfast.
like cornedbeefhash and sunny sideup eggs
and hash browns
and cakes of pan
Some days you want to eat the same thing three times
and spend your last crumpled wad of bills on tips for highschoolkids that do a better job than you could.
Some days you have to cast a shifty glance and a sneer at every palm on the glass door thudding authoritatively, smug, and smearing greasy remnants all over clean, clear window.
Mother cleaned windows.
Some days you remember why mother cleaned the windows and not you
but you did figure out that windex kills wasps
and clears your sinuses.
Some days you can't get a booth with your back to the wall, and your eyes on the door, and only two big steps to the emergency exit.
Some days you count the steps. The hats. The redheads. The fists. The escape.
Some days you're alive.
Some days you're close.