The Boy at the Drive Thru

I went through the drive-thru
this morning to buy coffee,
where an adolescent boy
was taking orders as the cars
passed through.

He came in close
to my window
and asked me
what I needed,
but I was busy translating
him, a foreign prologue to an
unwritten book.

And suddenly his whole life
passed through me,
an impossible landscape,
another star in the universe
who shared the dust of
slaves with me.

He could have been my son;
he was somebody's son.
Someone loved him.
He had dreams and hopes,
his dark skin so stunning
in the dawn's light.

He was my brother,
my own flesh.
And if I was standing,
I may have bowed to him,
given him the biggest tip
I could afford,
because he was me,
and I was him.

If I were standing,
I may have been inclined
to hug him,
to say thank you
for being out here
at 6:00 a.m.,
still on his summer break.

I wanted to
to shake his hand,
to celebrate this moment
of such symbiotic pleasure,
so deep was the connection
to this young man
with a heart,
and kidneys, and legs,
who beat a million siblings
to the finish line
just to arrive here,
so innocent,
still unbroken by the world.
What were his passions?
Where did he go home
after his shift?

I'm telling you,
he was so close,
so close to my heart.

And after I paid
for my coffee
and tipped him considerably,
I wanted to know his name,
so that maybe tomorrow
I might connect even more,
give him some advice,
find out why he was doing
this kind of job,
what made him
live so fully.

What is it like
to be another human being?
That's what I'm asking.

Unanswered, I still drove away
a new man.