Aces and Eights

All I wanted was enough coffee
to pry my eyes open for driving
through the headlit dawn.
Inside the nearest gas station
a retired Irishman
and his Middle Eastern counterpart
froze their morning screenplay
upon my quiet arrival.

The latter stopped punching numbers
and grabbed a can of electronics cleaner
to blast counters, screens, and keyboards.
His luckless customer stood looking
like a man guilty of espionage
in a country that still beheads.

I poured my share, paid the clerk
and made my way for the exit.
The script picked up again
as the white-haired hopeful
declared his precious numbers
in low tones used in confessional booths
since I was out of earshot
and his secret would be safe.

The rest of my day had no more subtle sins.
Without belief in magic
there can't be such infractions.