Privilege

Kid in the next booth slumped

against the window. Bored

into his bones. His mother's hand

on his wrist—you'll miss this

when it's ordinary.

My grandmother said it different.

Boredom is a privilege, baby.

I was twelve. Made a face.

She didn't say it twice.

Forty-three. Counter seat. Eggs getting cold.

I'd give a lot for an afternoon

with nothing in it. Just this.

The kid who doesn't know

he's holding everything.