At the table in patio seating, br a young man starched into my evening br in waiter black and white-- br he's probably named John, Tom, br something less spectacular than the busboy br named Ari at the table beside me. br He is a boy I've seen and I hide that from him, br a silence he doesn't understand as he turns away br not remembering that a week ago while waiting for a bus br I saw him step over the legs of an old br homeless woman br sprawled on the sidewalk. His foot br not clearing her arm, caught, br so that he jerked her body br while a consciousness br almost found her but didn't, br just stirred somewhere below her face. br In the spiral where he turned he glanced br not at the woman but to see who'd seen. br He saw me watching him, jack-lighted and drawn br into the warm ceremony that fell through him. br I understood this explosion, br the burn from the beginning, br there when a bus passes, or a waiter br quietly puts down your check. br He could be my brother, br have parents at home in Ohio where there is a small lie br buried in a garden with snow peas and basil. br There may be another breaking the soil, br dogs who bark into the woods, br constellations who see our freeways as spines-- br or he may miss a warm climate, br groves of oranges measuring the circular br scent of weight each time a heavy fruit falls. br He may know that secretly br the hearts of children conspire to stop br when parents close their bedroom doors. br But in this construction, br the pace that takes him back and forth br in the servitude of strangers, br he has forgotten, again, to feel for me, br eating alone, a woman familiar br deep in the eyes, br with his same knowledge of movement br that bends us forward, br the instinct of our heels br ready to turn against that jerk a body makes br even in dead sleep, br the stir that is less than we ask for, br less than an old woman, br or a woman growing old.