He wears his face in that way
that makes him look
like it’s a considerable effort
to be alive.
The kind of man-boy
you can’t imagine what he wore
before they invented
hoodies.
His hair flops over his eyes
like an oily pelt.
His Adam’s apple,
pointy as an elbow,
makes him look like those snakes
that swallow pigs.
I do today
what I always do.
I try to make him smile
but I can tell he thinks
I’m bourgeois
or just beyond the barrier
into the gauzy land
of older people.
I leave a big tip
but he doesn’t seem to notice.
Later I notice him talking
to the girl who was behind me in line.
I hope he thinks the tip was from her
which makes me realize
this is the kind of mother I’ll be,
quietly arranging his happiness,
an invisible meddler
of joy.