12:42 pm - the comfort of a rhetorical question
If I were a poet, that's what I'd write about. People who worked in the middle of the night. Men who loaded trains, emergengy coom nurses with their gentle hands. Night clerks in hotels, cabdrivers on graveyard, waitresses in all-night coffee shops. They knew the world, how precious it was when a person remembered your name, the comfort of a rhetorical question, "How's it going, how's the kids?" They knew how long th enight was. They knew the sound life made as it left. It rattled, like a slamming screen door in the wind. Night workers lived without illusions, they wiped dreams off counters, they loaded freight. They headed back to the airport for one last fare.
--Janet Fitch, White Oleander
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