Trying to be "Good"

Back in the proverbial
saddle, riding the bike
through the dark
suburban morning,
eyes tearing,
legs and lungs
burning. I am
out of
gas.

And all this for what?
So I can limp into
Super Donuts in our
sad little strip mall,
barely alive in post-
Bush economic times,
and say hello to the cute
little henna-haired
hostess who works harder
than I'll ever have to.

"Hi there!" she says cheerfully
in her Korean-accented English.
(At least I think she's Korean.
Could just as easily be Vietnamese,
Cambodian or Thai, I suppose.)
My medium coffee steams
in Styrofoam;
she's poured it for me,
even before I asked for
it myself.

"Aww, you remembered,"
I say in mock emotion.
She laughs and says, "Ninety-
six cents, please," in her
sing-song way.

And the inhabitants of
this half-awake
world come shuffling
in and out, ordering
their Kolaches
("Warm it up for you?")
and their dozen
donuts. ("Okay, what
kind you like?") I
sit in the fluorescence
of this little slice of the
American dream, scribbling
words to no one, drinking
watery, over-priced coffee,
and wondering just how
the hell I'm gonna
pedal my fat ass back
home.