I'm sitting next to the restrooms

and a stinking trash receptacle

in an El Polo Loco across the street

from a strip club and the county mental health building -

the afternoon autumn light bathing everything

in a golden hue.

 

An aged Mexican man walks through the double glass doors.

He squints up at the menu

like he's looking into a microscope through a pair of reading glasses.

You can tell by the guilelessness in his eyes,

he has no one.

And so doesn't even realize he's lonely.

 

I am attracted to his face

in the same way I’m attracted to Arabian music

or Japanese calligraphy or death.

I can't stop staring.

There is something in it

that makes me regret all the wrong I've done,

and I'm ashamed.

He orders one drumstick,

pays for it with nickels and dimes and bits of trash.

He eats his supper standing right there at the counter,

his lips and cheeks shiny with grease -

crumbs stuck in his mustache and beard.

 

The sight rips out my insides

and I am ashamed.

I head into the restroom and vomit in the sink.