At the table in patio seating，

    a young man starched into my evening

    in waiter black and white——

    he's probably named John， Tom，

    something less spectacular than the busboy

    named Ari at the table beside me.

    He is a boy I've seen and I hide that from him，

    a silence he doesn't understand as he turns away

    not remembering that a week ago while waiting for a bus

    I saw him step over the legs of an old

    homeless woman

    sprawled on the sidewalk. His foot

    not clearing her arm， caught，

    so that he jerked her body

    while a consciousness

    almost found her but didn't，

    just stirred somewhere below her face.

    In the spiral where he turned he glanced

    not at the woman but to see who'd seen.

    He saw me watching him， jack-lighted and drawn

    into the warm ceremony that fell through him.

    I understood this explosion，

    the burn from the beginning，

    there when a bus passes， or a waiter

    quietly puts down your check.

    He could be my brother，

    have parents at home in Ohio where there is a small lie

    buried in a garden with snow peas and basil.

    There may be another breaking the soil，

    dogs who bark into the woods，

    constellations who see our freeways as spines——

    or he may miss a warm climate，

    groves of oranges measuring the circular

    scent of weight each time a heavy fruit falls.

    He may know that secretly

    the hearts of children conspire to stop

    when parents close their bedroom doors.

    But in this construction，

    the pace that takes him back and forth

    in the servitude of strangers，

    he has forgotten， again， to feel for me，

    eating alone， a woman familiar

    deep in the eyes，

    with his same knowledge of movement

    that bends us forward，

    the instinct of our heels

    ready to turn against that jerk a body makes

    even in dead sleep，

    the stir that is less than we ask for，

    less than an old woman，

    or a woman growing old.