I want to work at Waffle House
when I grow up.
Calling out orders over the din,
sweat trickling down my back and
steam rising up from the dishwasher
like a message from the heavens
proclaiming my importance.
I’ll sling the hash, scramble the eggs and
make the bacon extra crispy for table 3.
I’ll wait tables, wash dishes and
cook all in one shift.
The bacon will sizzle at my command,
people will see my style and flair
and they will smile because of me.
I want to be a truck driver
when I grow up.
Sitting on 18 wheels, hot metal and
one hell of an engine.
The road will be mine
kids will wave from minivans,
bikers will nod humbly and the
waitress will bring me extra coffee.
I’ll drive from Maine to Florida,
stopping only to gas up the rig.
Rubber will burn, the pedal will
melt onto the metal and I’ll sleep
every other Tuesday.
I want to sleep on a park bench
when I grow up.
Worn out from living the life
great novels are made of;
my tangled hair at my shoulders
and a beard covering the scars.
The pigeons will tell me their secrets
and the grass under my shoeless feet
will remind me of the gnarled roots that
began the entire escapade.
Mothers will steer their children away from
me, boy scouts will give me nickels and the
policeman will shake his head as he evicts
me from my bench. From behind the
dumpster I’ll watch the people walking by
holding hands, living the life that already
passed me by.
I want to be alive
when I grow up.
Out in the world in a pile of
grease and ketchup sitting on
the general merchandise and sleeping
with God’s creatures.
onemorefool 