Lunch Break
by Steve Barker
centered in Pioneer Square
eating a tuna fish sandwich
packed in an old weed bag
while a man played the buckets and bottles
in torn jeans and
a jacket spewing cotton
he beat that plastic and glass
like he was in a stadium
holding 40 thousand people
I sat back shivering
as I chewed dry bread
and saltless canned fish
the klanks and klangs
echoed around the buildings
I hung my head and listened
noticing my sweat socks
peeking out between my khakis and dress shoes
I pulled a cigarette from my pack
and was hit with a soft pitch of guilt
without dropping money in the hat
I was a thief
a two punched coffee card
and license were all I could give
but there was a cigarette tucked in his ear
and seven in my pack
I put an untouched half of a sandwich
next to his cart
and dropped two smokes in his hat
he smiled
rattling a green forty bottle
with splintering sticks
Steve is an editor for the journal when it rains from the ground up. He enjoys the simple things in life, like his girlfriends cooking and nights at the bar with friends.
