No room at the inn

I watched my client and friend stand at the wooden door.
He gazed intently through the half moon glass.
It was Christmas and the moon was full this year.
He hadn’t seen his mother for 2 months but
She promised she would come.
She promised she would be there for her boy.
He left the window door and paced about
Not in nervous anticipation, but the way he always paces
The steady gaze out that window became an added part;
An added step to his autistic routine.
I so wished he could communicate.
I wanted to hear the words that echoed in his heart and head.
I wanted to reassure him that his Christmas joy would come,
But my internal mumblings would not be heard.
I tried to sign but he was too busy;
Too busy churning hope like milk into fear butter.
A butter he would have to spread alone this Christmas
Seasoned with the salt of his tears.

Sunday Breakfast in Old Town

I sat at a table big enough for four
There was myself and that was it.
I perused the menu and picked my dish
Watched others come in and sit
The Mexican joint was not too crowded
Maybe five or ten people at most
A college girl sitting all sophisticated
Was reading the Denver Post
She wiggled in place and traded me glances
She sipped her coffee, alone
I buried my head in last week’s “Ticket”
It was the only paper I owned
A college couple sat by the front window pane
It divided them from the walk
They too seemed content in their reading
I never once saw them talk.
The waitress placed a solitary fellow
At a table just next to mine
I continued to read the entertainment pages
Didn’t glance at him while he dined
Absorbing more of myself than others
A man cleared his throat at me
“Can I steal this chair from you?’ he asked
I said, “Go ahead, take three”
More people meandered in and out
I ate my eggs on toast.
Then came a scraggly college dude
He confidently looked “East Coast”
He talked to the cashier, placed an order
And then walked over to the miss
She closed the Post and stood up quickly
She gave him a gentle kiss.
He tickled her breasts thinking no one saw
Then sat down picking at her plate
The party of nine was ordering now
I just read my paper and ate
Seven coffees and a juice and a cup of Earl Grey
It was quite a different mix of folks
More people crowded in, my plate was clean
I needed my pack of smokes.
I took my ticket, paid my bill
I casually walked away
I’d never see any of those people again
But the time was nice that day

Michael's cat

When I look up from my desk, I see pictures in all directions. One is a drawn picture that Michael did. He colored a house. It is transparent with sea foam trim and a domed roof and chimney to boot. A man stands next to it and his left arm is sticking through the transparent abode below the roof and ceiling. He too is transparent, but he is a purple man and rather rotund. His legs enlarge as they approach the ground like extended telescopes. At the base are three toes on each spyglass. They are deep-rooted in the earthy brown muck known as ground. A red and blue Venus flytrap, see through as well, grow straight and sturdy from the mucky earth. Up above is a scribbled sky with an orange sun. Somewhere between the earth and sky floats a blue tree. It is really a kernel of popcorn on a stick, but you know what was intended. It hangs freely just below the warm, glowing orange orb. There is a feline, drawn on white paper with a red pen, cut out, and pasted to this bucolic scene, as if to say, “Oops, I almost forgot the cat?”