Reflections at McDonald’s

The night is staring darkly in. She sweeps 
between the vinyl benches, tugs at fries, 
the clumps of slush and wrappers wedged beneath 
the iron table legs. She has grown wizened 
in this work, in the rhythm of known things—
the work of stroke by stroke, forward and back. 
Her figure works across the window, framing 
her in glass. She plucks a chicken sack 
from a table puddle, wet wrap and straws 
lifted and stuffed—then headlights blur the scene. 

High school kids, following the last March loss 
are huddled in a booth now, in between 
the game and tomorrow. They are soon adrift 
in brightly colored paper flotsam, plans 
articulated on the glass as if 
the window were a canvass and their hands 
brushes. She trudges forward, booth by booth, 
toward them. She hears them talking. On a stage, 
one eyebrow might arch gently toward a truth, 
or lower, in contempt, as if the wage 

for hours were the wisdom. Still, she knows 
none of that but, staring blankly out, 
she stops within their frame. A dark tableau 
emerges, etched on mirror glass—the rout 
of desire, chased by the scuffing of a broom 
across the timeless tiles. It might break a will 
to see this play in panorama. She looms 
above, behind, and stares beyond until 
new headlights stir the scene, and a slow bend 
begins. Now, she is pushing through the space 
of booths and hours and paper once again, 
at the soft urge of an enigmatic grace.