At Dave's

There were other ways of knowing
 He stepped into a yellow morning which seemed to him to be
 Well, not gray but kind of a grayish maroon
 He couldn't figure out why
 He hadn't eaten mushrooms in at least a week
 
 He stumble-crawled towards Dave's Luncheonette
 Climbed into a booth
 He insisted on looking at the menu
 For six minutes and thirty seven seconds every day
 Even though he always ordered bacon and eggs, toast, and coffee
 This morning, he also ordered water
 But he didn't drink any of it
 It was Thursday, April 20, 1967
 He was waiting for something to happen
 As he was eating, some of the water evaporated
 Some people were born, some were married
 A star imploded, a friend of his was throwing up
 Two others were having sex
 As he finished his last forkful of eggs
 A fly, sitting directly opposite from him, died
 He left Dave's, headed north
 Nothing much happened the rest of the day
 Had he known it was Hitler's birthday
 He would not have celebrated