Straight Black Coffee

Straight Black Coffee From some hole in the wall diner in a town of ten-thousand people tastes a lot like soot, or bitter ash. Coffee grinds float weightlessly on the surface black gnats flailing. Derelicts. Abandoned in a blackened sea. The silence is surreal, unnatural Akin to those peculiar moments before a funeral When pale bodies in black suits sit stiff in pews, like naked trees, and the Reaper can be felt sliding through the aisles. Crooked fingers wrapped around a gleaming scythe. Bony mouth opened wide. Howling at the sky. The Universe holds its' breath. "It's like a dusty tomb in here," I hear a big-toothed waitress say, the lights are grey and coated in tar. Dead insects bake on the bottom, One can hear them crackle and fry. It's a somber cell with peeling yellow wallpaper, baby crying in the street Reaper clicking his stiffened feet Or a Poem, "I Heard a Fly Buzz," by Emily Dickinson. The King is in the Room, now The King is in the Room.