45° left, 60° right, 10° left.
The little wool hat moving,
like a combination lock.
The light hum of the soda machine,
a distinct mood-setting ambiance.
The neon sign buzzing away.
Smoke fills the small room,
A small room lit by smiles.
Teeth resembling little white salt-shakers,
poured over three orders of french fries,
like snow over a mountain.
Burgers bleeding yellow over red
are cradled carefully by bleach white wax paper.
A symphony of crinkles and rips,
accompanied by the smacking of lips and teeth,
in applause to the passing performance.
Laughing,
yelling,
cheering,
but never silence.
A ballroom dance of irises,
and then they leave our money.
I’ll pick up the tab next time though,
because burgers taste better when they’re free.