We sat drinking coffee,
both making our way home.
He told me about a lost faith,
and working 17 hours a day.
No proof of skill or
dreams that keep time.
Only a red-eyed wake
each morning.
I thought some jobs you like.
Others are so dreary and pitiless,
they make you want to stay in bed.
And think about the
waitress you met last night.
And if God has a name.
A Wandering Poet 