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.
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