Hangover at the Family Diner

I’m waiting for my roast beef and struggling
with the boy standing before the candy bars
with his parents up at the register.

His hands are all wrapped up in his shirt.
"I want some" he is loudly repeating
with all he has, even his pink belly
which protrudes toward the candy, now that
its covering is otherwise employed.

Everyone hears him, hears his mom tell him
"Enough." A little wrinkled and graying,
I doubt she means it. Everyone in here,
I think, has sympathy for her, for her
husband tucking his change away.

But I am rooting for the boy; he’s so little
and could become almost anyone. What he’s
going through, what he could be
saying for his polite parents he
is earnestly saying with his hands.

Bringing My Stare to a Blinking Match

Because I don't have a license,
I always look to others
when I need a license.
For example, my bad joints:
bones like spurs and dents.
Machines have measured how dense.
A bone-meets-bone story
with grinding.

I don't handle well on stairs.
I keep my hand on the rail in stairwells.
For example, I've watched the porn
where a man and a woman
share intimacies (for onscreen)
on public stairs.

I imagine myself there
going at it or going to town
or just stumbling upon.
What would I think,
there, about going? Down?
I'm always thinking about
going, so I know
I would be a million miles away
and there at the same instant.
Just like here:
I'm somewhere else somewhere.