Two O’Clock,
we called him.

He walked to the corner
across from the bodega
and stood motionless
every day at that time
for exactly
seventeen minutes,
then walked away.

It’s a good thing we had a clock,
one with a second hand.
Otherwise,
we’d never have known his name.

Three years I worked there,
in that stupid optical shop,
unpacked lenses
and packaged frames
for delivery all over
the damn state,
and Two O’Clock
was out there every day,
rain or shine,
waiting for something.

A place to go
is a good thing.
I used to get paid for going to mine.
I don’t know what he got out of his
because I never saw him meet anyone
or get on a bus to go somewhere else.

Two o’clock rolls around these days
and I sit here.  I don’t do anything
at all.  Haven’t for a while,
and the money’s running out.
I might go down to the corner
one of these days,
see if Two O’Clock’s still doing his thing.
Maybe he’s been waiting for me.
He must know something
about killing time I might learn.

And he wore glasses.
I remember that.  Old ones,
with big plastic frames.
Maybe I could adjust them for him.
I used to do that too.