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I am done with my chicken rice soup,
And the blonde waitress is ringing me up.
You are always in and out, she says,
like the wind… we'll call you 'the wind.'
I don't know, I say, it doesn't sound right.
How about 'breeze'? she doesn't give up.
We're getting there, I say, I can be a breeze.
Uhh.. she says, and what if we called you 'hurricane?'
That one makes me laugh out loud; she is good.
A hurricane came in and took a bowl of soup,
I say, I like that, I like that a lot.
She is looking right at me with those green eyes;
She is still beautiful, but most people don't see it.
She drops the change in the palm of my hand,
Smiles a tired smile.
It starts to rain, while I drive home.
The street-lights look smeared in the dark.
But I feel good. I feel real good.