Denizens: James

James has his lunch everyday at 12:30
at the same corner table, the same corner bar.
He orders the same seven meals without fail;
today is a Tuesday, so he'll have a club.
Without the tomato, he'll say to the waitress,
as if they don't know all his orders by heart,
and know that he likes his wheat toast brown and crispy,
and know that he tips like a drunken rock star.

He shields himself safely behind a thick book--
a title he's carefully picked to intrigue
the waitress who serves him that day of the week;
Tuesdays are Tess, so he reads Ed McBain.
Sci-Fi for Annie, dragons for Kim,
political thrillers for Dottie and Gwen.
That way they can chat without having to pry,
and James can be dashing and Tess can be sweet.

Sheltered in sameness, pretending to read,
he watches his angels as they juggle plates
and fend of the feelers of boorish, young strangers
and laugh at their antics, but never at him.
James often wonders what they say about him
after he leaves and they sit counting tips;
he wonders if they liked his cable-knit sweater,
he wonders if they thought his shirt was too loud.

James dresses for lunches like they were auditions,
with careful attention to every detail,
and sits at his table in anticipation
that one day a waitress will sit by his side.
She'll ask why a man of such obvious charm
has lunch all alone every day of the week,
and ask why he's never once asked for her number
and tell him for once she is free Saturday.

But after an hour, he'll finish his meal
and close up his book and brush crumbs from his lap,
and stack all his silverware next to his plate
and walk to the door with a wave and a smile.
He'll walk past the window and hope they are watching
the confident stride of a man without cares,
then panic will grip him until he is safely
behind the locked doors of his house up the street.

He'll take off the jacket he'd carefully chosen
and hang it up neatly beside his wife's coat.
He'll call out her name, not expecting an answer,
and walk through the emptiness back to their room.
He'll lay on his side of the bed and remember
the purse of her lips when she sipped a bent straw,
and how they would talk when he'd feed her her dinner...
then he'll think about Wednesdays and corned beef on rye.