Country Diner

I hang a left, my clunker rocking on sprung shocks. Inside, narrows taper to booths. The talk is griddle speech, a blow by blow banter, middle finger smarts mixed with vowels of tenderness. I overhear the history of generations of icons. False gods named, Tod, Ricky, and Wayne vicariously share the bruised chatter - ankle-swelling narrations that break apart unfulfilled. The food arrives with a woman. Dimples nap in work-weary cheeks. Her necklace is ink, yet it hangs over my senses like a caress. She knows I’ve been listening, the waitress smiles, continues unabashed a colloquy with my eyes, recites by rote her 'tip-me-big' love spell.