At the gas station
a man in wraparound shades
was talking too loud
about how the country had gone soft.
He needed help
working the pump.
I looked away.
Mercy takes strange forms.
*
Morning after.
Coffee in a chipped mug.
A pair of men on television
complaining about women
with the smooth confidence
of men who have never once
been afraid in a parking lot.
*
He said people like me
were what was wrong now.
People like me.
No specifics.
Just that old warm fog
men crawl into
when life has not gone
the way they planned.
*
He had a ring mark
on his left hand
and a truck key
on the bar.
I’ve learned to read
the little clues.
*
At the diner
two men in boots
were eating eggs
and blaming immigrants
for the price of bacon.
One of them
could not read
the card machine.
The waitress helped him
without moving her face.
I tipped her extra
for the nation.
*
My father used to say
some men will die
before they let a fact
ruin a feeling.
At the time
I thought that was wisdom.
Now it just sounds
like the weather report.