Dear Anonymous,
They sit waiting. Or stand. Mostly in their own worlds. Some chat with one another though. They smoke. Share a light.
Coffee cards. Coffee cake. Socks. A shirt here. A sweatshirt there. Some eczema cream for his hands. A belt. Any pants? No pants. Any backpacks? No backpacks.
'Any books?' the Reader asks.
Tomorrow. Tomorrow I may have books.
I show the photograph of that young blue eyed man to the young blue eyed man. He smiles. Then he shows me the color variations in his eyes. A tad of yellow here he says. A tad amber down here. The man knows his eyes.
Many regulars are not here. It's the first few days of the month. Checks come in. Jingle enough for a moment. Rooms to rent for a night or two. Addictions to feed. Pains to soothe. Things to do.
May they know some peace and may I never assume what that may look like.