drugstore breakfast

he's in uniform, a white cap
of some sort with a black brim,
hard to tell if he's a captain
in the navy, or working the door
at the plaza hotel.
there are gold buttons down
his black jacket,
a rope brocade, also gold,
draped fancily
around his shoulder.
his shirt is white,
the cuffs sticking out
of his arms.
he's wearing boots. slick
and shiny. he's sitting next
to you at the drugstore
counter. he asks you if
you could pass the ketchup,
while he strokes his dark goatee.
he takes the bottle from you,
then pours it on his eggs.
all over them
in a crisscross pattern.
you try to ignore this,
but you can't, disgusted,
you push your plate aside,
finish your coffee, then pay.
you can't believe what
he's done to his eggs.