As George considers the gracefulness of a language that embraces words like yew, lummoxes,
corolla and yaps*, I eavesdrop on an old couple
at a table nearby. She has just said “Diabetes.” I’ve seen them here before (Border’s Bookstore
Café, self-service), their knapsacks on the floor.
The man and his magnifying glass read aloud from a New York Times Magazine section. His hair –
patted stiffly
atop his head – has gone yellow with age. “I’m not worried about not having a job,
that’s for sure,” she replies to something I didn’t hear.
Her hair is younger and she has more flesh. His hands are German, maybe Irish – pale. They
wear green coats and never eat or drink.
I have imagined them as long-time lovers, stunned by losses, separated each evening
by shelter policy. As she gets up to go, he follows to the top of the stairs.
From across the mezzanine I hear her, “Every cent he can get his filthy hands on,” and
“McCain,” something, “Karl Rove,” something, something, “Republican Senator.
I told you.” “What did he do?” he asks. “Pay attention,” hand on hip, she scolds,
“You didn’t hear the whole thing, about his grandchildren, in tears. He doesn’t like
Boulton.” After she flounces down the stairs, he retreats to the chair near me, holding the
magnifying glass. Slow jazz on the PA system plays over us. Later,
after George has left and I’ve looked at books on sale and read about Persphone, I catch sight of
him walking up Washington Street. “I knew I was right,” I think, following
the old fellow. He moves steadily, past Barnes and Noble, jewelry stores selling
diamond rings, and the smell of Burger King. He must be heading for St. Francis
and a bed tonight, I decide, until he disappears into the Orange Line entrance,
bound for some bed I haven’t imagined.
*yew [ME<OE], lummox [?], corolla [Lat.] and yap [Prob. imit.]
Published in Purple Patch