He comes inside,
in ragged, too-baggy jeans
one ear filled with metal,
and his arms with violent tattoos.
He saunters up,
investigating the pop cooler,
a comment about only drinking juice
barely audible above the traffic noise outside.
Unsatisfied, he turns to
the candy racks.
A few minutes,
and he shakes his head.
A mutters:
"No, better not.
That shit'll rot your teeth."
He grins at me -
one tooth missing.

Then he steps outside
and lights a cigarette.

06/02/2003

Author's Note: Revised May 2007.

Posted on 06/02/2003
Copyright © 2025 Amanda J Cobb