In the Wawa

Low in the early pewter sky, a red-yellow beacon
burns, promising light and warmth.
Here will be coffee. I’m wearing
my castoff orange Asplundh hoodie
stained with paint drips and chainsaw grease,
toting my constant companion,
a Coach handbag in butter-soft black leather.

In the Wawa, nobody looks askance. They don’t care
why I pair a tree service sweatshirt with a designer purse.
Navigating between the islands, we dance, careful not to jostle,
dazed at such sudden proximity. Bleary-eyed
workbooted men in flannel-lined jeans gather at the deli,
ordering breakfast hoagies, mingling with salty
blue-scrubbed nurses from our local hospital; stunned
teenaged girls up too late, or awake too early;
a suit-clad fellow with polished shoes, a realtor maybe;
guys in Phillies caps; manicured tennis ladies, hugging diet sodas;
dads clutching boxes of donuts for soccer practice.

The great leveler, this. On our coming in and going out,
we hold the door for each other, nod, exchange a thanks
for a y’r welcome. It doesn’t matter where you came from
or where you’re heading, for you’re only here
to satisfy those basic needs we have in common: to eat, to drink,
to keep warm, to get ready to make yourself useful in the world.
Wawa is where, when you go there, they have to take you in.
And when you leave, you’re on your own.