Why 6 is a lonely number

The device in my hands writes to distraction as my stomach awaits nourishment,
A swirl of competing sounds battle with foreign voices from another room,
A stove top crackles as a radio competes for audio supremacy against a crying infant,
The radio noise is soon defeated, as voices rise and fall comforting a now content baby,
I feel heat, as fire belches from the stove top while the contents of a large pan are tossed.

As I write, Customer number 6 is shouted aloud in a thick accent not typical in this area,
A surprise to me considering I’m the only person waiting patiently in the shopfront. 
I check the small receipt in my hand and notice the number ‘6’ crudely printed in blue ink,
And wonder why I’m only the 6th diner to call into this quiet place on such a busy Street?
This is a struggling family, but the low number is on my mind while I stand and pay for my meal.

Once collected, I thank them for their custom, my smile is genuine, as is theirs in return,
On dark days like these, I wish all who work hard for so little reward, the brightest of futures,
They strive to create a new world for themselves, not unlike their infant, they also seek contentment.

I bid them farewell, the husband smiling, the wife exhausted, the infant crying once more.
Beneath darkening clouds, a cool wind blows, so I find a quiet place to sit and dine,
I eagerly open my food, and again ponder the lonely number six printed on my receipt,
A mouthful confirms what the plastic lid can no longer conceal, yet the rubbish bin now knows.
Hard work, smiles and hope, do not always make a good cook.