Plenty Of Nothing
by Ken Head © 2006


The boy hunched over a computer in the Seven Eleven
late one night is left-handed. The mouse he’s holding
doodles homeless dreams across the screen as he sleeps.

It‘s winter and very dark. The wind has a cutting edge.
The girl at the next terminal leans across, speaks quietly,
strokes his hair gently with a broken-nailed, dirty hand.

Between them on the table sit a waxed-paper soup cup,
empty, two white plastic spoons and a small Evian bottle.
Their heavy packs are both squeezed in against their legs.

The assistant knows the company’s policy, but tonight
he’s decided to believe the textbook propped in front
of them really is the reason why they’ve stayed so late.

He keeps himself busy, heating trays of tasty pastries
in a microwave. When the late crowd arrives, after all
the bars close, they’ll go like hot cakes. They always do.

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