The Diner

Hang a left, clunker rocking
on sprung shocks.
Inside,
narrows taper to booths.
The place is slow-time empty.

The staff talk is griddle speech,
a blow by blow banter,
middle finger smarts mixed with
vowels of regrets.

From the lips of waitresses
the clipped history
of shaky affairs
and dead-loss dudes.

False gods named,
Tod, Ricky, and Wayne
a bruised chatter -
ankle-swelling narrations
that break apart unfulfilled.

Food arrives with a woman,
dimples nap in work-weary cheeks.
Her necklace is ink,
yet it hangs over glancing eyes
as a low-cut caress.

She knows I’ve been listening,
yet continues unabashed
a colloquy with my senses.
reciting by rote a silent
        'tip-me-big' love spell.

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