A Side Order of Self-Pity
by Odin Roark

Some walk the banks of rivers and shore,
back alleys and deserted parks,
seeking,
maybe escaping.

Alone…

Stars and moonless nights
absorb everyday tolerance,
embellishing fear and question
with hunger to be illuminated.

The “open-all-night” neon engulfs.

The lost sidle up to decision’s banquet table.
Cold plates on the left.
Hot on the right.

The chef of dreams hovers with whispers.
“Bet you remember 25 cent beer,
pearl onions,
pickles,
olives,
and the God-awful peppers.
Well, this ain’t no White Horse Bar,
but enjoy anyway. You earned it,
even though you acknowledge survival
as an unearned trophy.”
Always ending with that enigmatic wink from the chef.

That’s how it might go for those
who traverse stygian blackness
happening on this yet another
midnight-sun smorgasbord diner.

A homeless man peers through the window,
rags wrapped around his head against the rain and cold.
They stare at each other for a long time.

This is where one’s self-pity finally stops.
Time to smell the coffee and finally whisper back
to the chef of dreams, “Hold that side order of self-pity.
Having what I have does just fine… just fine.
And, oh, gimme a coffee to go,
cream and sugar on the side. Might warm him up.”