Lonnie

You scuttle in with a weak smile, your second time today

the doors clap behind you and the hostess knows

Legs are familiar with where to sit

 

Patterns, water, routines, and “unsweet tea

Both with lemon, please.”

“Ok,” I say even though I already know

I turn around and eyes are closed, buried deep in white hands

And I know you think one one understands

But I think I do

 

The pages of your journal flutter, black ink flying

Drinks are on the table now and I ask about food

Patterns, water, routines, and “more unsweet tea

Mushrooms on the side, please.”

I walk away towards the kitchen

wondering if the bald spot on your head has grown

since you found out about her cancer

     

Eager eyes meet my glance as I carry the food

And you study it as I set it down

Patterns, water, routines, and “paper napkins, please.”

I smile and nod

 

And I think you think no one understands

Why this place brings you so much comfort

But I think I do