WAITING FOR THE LIGHT: 10:48 SATURDAY NIGHT

He tickles the cactus with small fingers
of water, alone in the fluorescent

store. In the twelve minutes till closing,
he’s got filing to do, and math: candy

inventory, late-fee totals, cash count.
I’ve been in that store. I know the slowhand

way he searches for hard titles and sings
to himself, his gentleness parceling

the oddball change film rentals always bring.
Who loves him? I wonder, watching from my car,

waiting for my life to change, heading home
with dinner to the same house he lives in.