All good cafes have a Stinky Guy.

He sits at the counter.

Same frayed plaid sports jacket,

A sweater under it in winter.

Carries a stained cloth bag.

Sits at the same counter stool.

Orders 2 scrambled eggs, 2 pieces of bacon and toast.

Reeks of the street,

Truck exhaust, gutter filth.

Skin left to its own devices,

Without water, soap, toilet paper.

Grimy fabric helps insulate other patrons

From his noisome frame.

Only the waitress gets close.

He gobbles and mumbles,

Holds his fork like a shovel.

He eats alone.

Pays in cash and tips well.

No eye contact or acknowledgement.

We all like it this way.

 

By Sue Storts

08/13/2016