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Mr. Ambrose straddles the aisle
of the thirty-nine eastbound
wet feet planted against bolted seats
surfs down to Main.
It's raining again
slaps through the puddles
the water wicking higher
toward his knees, so
he lights a cigarette and
damp smoke clings
to his hair, hesitates
at his back. His kangaroo
jacket gets heavy and he thinks
I need to cut my toenails.
Slips through a jingling door,
where a pale, black haired clerk commanding
a broom, shifts her feet, slightly
to keep him in view. Her jade eyes
absorb the cold air sucked in
behind Mr. Ambrose, who
checks his horoscope in the Star Weekly,
craves coconut
and grabs a Twinkie.
The clerk moves to the register
like an okapi to a watering hole,
Mr. Ambrose unzips his jacket
to show her the crucifix he wears
thinking to calm her,
she's thinking, he's reaching for a gun.
Screams. Falls flat on the floor.
Praying in Chinese.
A good samaritan, buying Wonderbread
heaves a can of Chef Boyardee
which Mr. Ambrose catches
with the side of his head
and then joins the clerk
on the floor
praying.
Only somehow he's learned Chinese.
Mr. Ambrose says it's a miracle,
tells the whole story to the waitress
at the Rio Restaurant on the west side, by Zellers
who looks back at the kitchen
at a cooling grilled cheese.
the number thirty-nine slides by outside
splitting an underlying sheet of water
the busboy buys cigarettes from a machine
with his tips. twenty five quarters.
Ca-lunk Ca-lunk Ching
the air conditioning kicks in, blows
dust off the plastic vines
stapled to the ceiling
a priest sits in a red booth sipping wine
stares at his reflection
in the window
where nighttime has stepped up to the glass
Mr. Ambrose folds his hands in his lap,
what the hell, he says,
just give me a chi chi and a steak.
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