he sits in that diner and he is
two point five decades' worth of emotion
compressed into a single, nervous point:
the relentless tapping
of keratin kissing linoleum.

he hears everything:
fingers curled round coffee cups
money whispering out of wallets
his thoughts clattering around like ice cubes
in the lemonade he asked for.

(his glass sweats, and so does he.)

one down. there's ice on his tongue, melting, and
he's feeling the weight of it
like the boxes crammed into his rattle-trap car,
like a pin pressed into a corkboard map,
like his signature at the bottom of a new lease.

(like a warning, and a hand on his wrist:
"you ain't gonna like it there, anto.")

last sour, pulpy sip as he decides
to pay it no mind and to play it
by ear. even now the distant city bustles
and he'll do ninety on the highway to catch it,
metamorphic in his fragile metal chrysalis.