St. John Eating Pancakes at Fog City Diner

Halo hung
on the coatrack
by the glass door,
lost in wide streaks
of mid-morning sunlight.

Faded denim
strains between
broad shoulders,
hunched;
hard, thick hands
dwarf the fork.

Dirt pushed high
under fingernails.

Another bite crosses
a coarse tangle of beard.

Out of work
since eight lanes of asphalt
level the wilderness
and the casinos string
and sparkle
and sing along
the river.

Out the window
the laborers
huddle with their backpacks
under a mission fig,
waiting,
gathering hesitantly around
every shiny truck
that pulls up.

Landscapers, roofers, masons.
Sí, sí puedo.
A few climb in and
are gone.
Painters and tree trimmers.
Carpenters.

Stares at himself
in a still pool of
black coffee,
making brown
runny rings
over snake-oil
want-ads.

Waitress sets the check
in front of him on the counter
without looking down.

A thread of maple syrup
seeps from a pale scar
circling his neck
and he does not bother
to wipe it away.