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.