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