Mas by Thomas Michael McDade

The caterer,
parked outside
Lebanon knitting mills,
four barrel money
changer hanging
off his belt
like a grenade memory
from his war is patient,
took him three months
to slam the door
on the arm of a man
stealing prune Danishes.
Coffee is piping hot,
pork and shepherd pies
are as fresh as “Ma’s”
which is painted
on his van —
without the possessive
to lure new Hispanics.
Watching the immigrants —
third shift fathers
taking babies from wives
punching in for the first,
he wonders how long
before they’ll trade
with him like citizens,
play the numbers,
buy discount cigarettes
he gets from his nephew
on a Navy bird farm.
And the military thought
reminds him of the first
squad of ex-enemy
mill workers he ever saw
Under a low flying
traffic chopper
he gashed his thumb
on his hand grenade
and scattering change
hit the road as silently
as coin flips
on a jungle floor.

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