old man on solitary walk

the loneliest times

are spent like this:

eating alone in familiar restaurants

with the smell of sawdust, baked meat and hot bread

reminiscent of some childhood innocence

and grace long lost

and never found again.

the loneliest times

are spent dropping quarters into the parking meter

scowling the L.A. skyline and cringing as the sway

of traffic streamlines from the direction of the County Jail

toward I- 101

with a carefully timed abandon

only the city seems to know.

the loneliest times are at the counter of the Pantry

slowly munching flank steak and mopping up eggs

with sourdough toast,

scanning the articles on WW III.

they are spent near tears

in a crowd full of old men and their habits,

blissfully ignorant families and their errands,

short snappy waiters full of dread

hungrily caressing their tip money

through their filthy aprons

and clawrake fingers

the loneliest times are wondering

when tipping became mandatory

especially for sardonic,snappy waiters

who ignore your pain and tears

over nuclear brinkmanship, eggs, greasy potatoes

and lukewarm coffee

while greedily clutching at their Unmighty

dollars.

the loneliest times are spent at Placita Olvera

lusting after the apocalyptic explosions of color, crucifix and cacti

absently buying obleas con cajeta

consciously wishing she knew all about you

all about your poems

all about your secret romance and its emptiness

the loneliest times are at night in your office

writing it all down among the apocalyptic visions

of newsprint, front page and tell me

something I don’t know.

the loneliest times are spent at the wishing well

clutching a penny and tying your designer shoes

feeling cheap and sold out

feeling pocho, unloved and broken

missing some thing everyone else seems to have

but you lack,

while the angels slip between the cracks

which you created with your fists.

the loneliest moment is not tossing that penny

pining for things you are not destined to have

the worst feelings are retiring at night

with the same pangs

for the same things

that never seem

to happen.

–December 27, 2002 East LA, California.