We grabbed a corner table for two
And were greeted within a minute
By my favorite busboy,
Delivering water, silverware and napkins.
I think his name is Juan,
But I’m really not sure.
In fact I have no idea what his name is
But I figure it must be Hispanic.
He has greeted me most every Saturday morning
For the last six months.
We usually share a funny comment
And he’ll bring coffee.
Maybe his income is better as a busboy,
But more likely it was the position he was offered,
Because of his accent,
Or perhaps he did not aspire to becoming a waiter?
I doubt he spent much time
Wondering if I remembered his name.
Maybe I never asked.
I prefer to think I just forgot.
Most Saturdays I pat him on the shoulder.
I think of it as a comment on our shared humanity.
What the hell does that make me?
Some kind of condescending ass?
Fear not, I recover my station
And rise to continue my morning walk.
Juan, or whatever his name is,
Moves from my consciousness.
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