He'd sneak away from the house
when he could
and ride down for a Coca-Cola
and that delicious smell
of food and company
it seemed he never could get
unless somebody's died.
And though they knew he
wasn't supposed to be there,
knew his mother had said
he was not to loiter in a public
eating place,
the owners took pity on him
and gave him one of their dark green booths
by the window
and never expected to sell him
more than one Coca-Cola
and a half-hour of, well,
some kind of mercy.
