“Thank you”, he said, again and again, a broken record. On the bottom of the coffee mug were some lonesome coins. His deep-set eyes kept shards and secrets and he reeked of pee and wasted moments.
“Thank you”, he said again, looking elsewhere. I felt my pockets for anything to give but who carries coins these days? Why don’t the beggars take Apple Pay?
“Thank you”, I thought, reminding me how good a life can be. Thank you for the privilege, to never starve, for showers. bed and clothes.
I had nothing to give, but still, he gave me this gratitude
a scent of darkness —
yesterday’s cigarette butts
concealing in snow
Today Frank hosts Haibun Monday at dVerse with a prompt of giving thanks, I think sometimes we are saying thank you for the wrong things.
November 22, 2021