Lunchtime at the Hawkridge Café
Earl licks the powdered sugar
around his cuticles
like salt from a margarita.
The white dust floats
from his lips and beard,
the eider-down of sweeteners.
Pouring his second cup, a waitress
awards him false eyelash winks that
remind him of noble
caterpillars crawling on
tomato vines heavy with fruit.
He breathes in a sip, the rising
steam joins with the milk,
and he
watches
his life swirl by—
mess tents near
army barracks and
young Texas women
tasting of calla lilies
and cream. He blows
to cool down two
marriages and five
children, all buried by taxes
or dust,
and the vapor floats
above his cup and out
into the café.
