The Golden Nugget
It sounds like a casino, but it is a deli-diner,
only open for breakfast and lunch.
A Ruben sandwich will cost you ten bucks,
but it is the best in town.
A girl-child covered in butterflies. I swear,
right there in the car park.
Pearly Eyes and Appalachian Browns mostly
but some dark purple wings grabbing the sunlight.
I miss my usual waitress, this one is okay,
but she doesn’t slow-talk and call me hon.
Among the usual notables: a pair of weekend bikers,
a big-bellied Ohio cowboy with his stiff, white Stetson,
Benny the gay Jew at his favorite table.
I glance at a booth window,
see reflected, a face covered in old skin.
A little boy winks in and out between the parked cars,
after all these years he is still light on his feet
for a monochrome memory.
Benny waves to me as he leaves.
He drives a yellow Corvette,
and always wears a silk suit, tie, and shirt.
No one ’round here wears silk, except the rich widows
who live in Oakwood, and they don’t come here
on Sunday mornings.
Coffee comes pouring. Dark purple nails,
nice long fingers. Her hips are friendly,
Her tats speak well of her, but there are
rain clouds in her eyes.
In any other legend she would be
a good dragon or bad Princess.
Here in the Golden Nugget,
she goes by the name of Sharlene.
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