A kid with a deflated red balloon
peeks over the booth
at Village Inn
at three in the morning.

His second-hand
Power Ranger
hand-me-down t-shirt
features a ten-year old
grape juice
stain.

His eyes -
bloodshot and heavy
with the weight
of dependent parents -
meet mine.

His hands -
calloused
like a thirty-year old
construction worker's -
grip the balloon
with white knuckles.

he asks:
"May I please borrow your ketchup?”

I oblige
and hand him the bottle.

He thanks me,
hands it to his father,
and returns to his french fries.