At Burger King at night, We are a few scattered Among the tables, waiting Or eating out of paper wraps, While the neon lights Do nothing to hide The day's dirt of floors, The day's pain of people. Outside the cars stop and move From traffic light to traffic light, In Boca, where people await their night. An older couple sits not far from me, His knees and back, ground to a halt, A walker by his side; His elder wife is aging better, But what does one know from the outside? Number 59. That is me. My classic chicken-sandwich With small fries awaits me at the counter; I return to the table and