Scrambled eggs in a New York diner around 10am, long after the Wall Street rush and the tide of cell phones to ears and Italian suits immacolato, draining the black coffee refills too quickly without considering the gut, thoughts turn to home, the mess back there, confused like spilled spaghetti, lying misdirected and tangled.
Nearby a derelict in a red woollen hat, pulled right down to his eyebrows, a dead ringer for a 1977 Richard Pryor, opens the doors to a Broadway McDonalds for every visiting and departing customer, his easy charm soothing what could appear an aggressive panhandle. A dollar or more earns a “God bless you and America…this is gonna be your lucky day today...I can feel it.” No dollars earns a smile and no judgment. He is in all senses cool with the game, however unexpected the bump of the dice.
The hot dogs are sizzling early and there are plenty of takers, heartburn riskers and Weight Watchers dropouts, waiting in line with rumbles in tummies and rumbles in minds, yellow taxis swim through all obstacles like deep sea shoals darting this way and that, and it’s on to the next stop, for all of us, wherever that may be…..