A man whose hair covers a giant book
with all words ever written, ever spoken.
All in one book, he says, assuring me
that he carries the burden in his hands.
His sunburnt cheeks sink beneath
oily frames, and behind them, green eyes.
It ain’t me, babe plays with ten minutes
left until shift change. A harmonica, old glory.
Men with beards, salt and pepper and hot link
brown, shovel eggs into their mouths. I look
through the glass at solitary robin nest,
stare into rain-stained ghost shapes.