The Stranger in the Kitchen

I found him under my expired passport,

grinning at someone behind the lens.

The kitchen is full of wood grain and smoke,

a red plastic cup tilted in his left hand.

He’s twenty-two and looks like he’s winning.

His thumb is hooked in a belt loop

where the button has already popped off,

leaving a small, frayed circle of denim.

I don't recognize the light in his eyes.

The man I know usually stares at the toaster

waiting for the bread to burn,

but this kid looks like he owns the floor.