Mr. Lane, I Hope You Can be Happy One Day



We always meet in the frozen section,
each of us surveying the offerings from
Uncle Ben and Mrs. Paul,
Swanson and Budget Gourmet.
We hover from zesty tater-tots to
chicken pot pies; from fish sticks to
White Castle hamburgers.

My greeting lifts his glasses and his eyes,
away from the shelves, toward myself.
He recognizes me, and a smile covers his face,
as he says "Hi, how are you?" - but a second later,
the grin is gone, as we move to the opposite ends
of the icy shelves.

I've known him for years-- Mr. Lane,
the owner, stock-man, cashier and bookie
of "Lane's Wines and Liquors," of Main Street --
but I really know nothing about him.
Whenever I come in though,
I can't help but notice how sad he looks.
He is pale beyond belief, and his eyes,
big, blue, and moist, are the eyes of a
stray dog; the eyes of an exiled convict
laying the rails of the Trans-Siberian railroad,
hammering away with his frost-bitten arms.
"He is very unhappy," my girlfriend once said;
he came up in the conversation, somehow.
But she also knew nothing, no story at all.

Mr. Lane, did your wife die suddenly?
Is there nobody at all you've got left?
What is eating at you? What is it?
Do you even drink, sweet old man?
I still don't know you, but I hope I will.
And Mr. Lane,
I hope you can be happy one day.