Tuesday. Good Morning

A stranger sighs warm parchment on the back of my neck.
A woman, bald with cancer, sips vodka through a big gulp’s blue straw.
The man next to her tries everything within his power to zap his body from the conversation – he even gets off a few stops early.
“Where are you going?” she calls after him, but invites new prey to gather in the open seats; a lion in a broken body is still a lion and she has stories to tell. She’s served her country; the only female in her family to go to war. She fist bumps thugs on the light rail – thugs running in and out of the doors trying to catch lemon drops in their mouths.
Last night, I cared for a homeless man in my dreams; watched as his parents who hadn’t seen him in 10 years said: “This is too hard on us, seeing you this way. I’m glad we don’t see you often.” I kept him from stealing someone’s puppy. I promised him we’d find another good dog for him someday. And then I ground coffee, spilling the beans all over myself, clumsy fits of wakefulness; the light and the cat tickling my back. My nose opened to the smell of Pat’s espresso; my eyes next. Tuesday. Good Morning. How did you sleep? he asked.