The Middle Initial

He wears a clean undershirt, ribbed and white,

but the scent of the shop follows him home.

It’s in the creases of his neck, a slight

hint of degreaser and heavy chrome.

He asked for the salt. I passed it over.

Our fingers didn't touch, they never do.

He’s been in this house for a decade of Sundays,

and I still don't know if his middle name is Drew

or David or nothing at all. He just sits

with a callus on his thumb like a stone,

marking a cross on the sports page in pencil,

perfectly quiet and perfectly alone.