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May 2015
The corner restaurant is a rendezvous of ghosts:
wholesome weeping wannabes, caricatures of caricature people,
large heads and drooping eyes, haunting cold coffee mugs,
burgers with fries, buzzing waitresses exhausted
has two kids back home and a young guy,
his hands deep in soapy waters and plates,
sweat stained shirt and forever o clock shadow
wishing he was someplace far, he's new but that one's not,
that one flipping canned meats, beer gut hanging low,
been here since 1975, used to play the guitar for a band,
the doors swing open, "Hey man, how long y'all open?",
boasting a cigarette mouth, coughing and yellow,
"I gotta get on the road but what pies you got?",
a 'Nam jacket zipped up, he sits while the jukebox sings
a cancerous voice and narcotic trumpet, and two lovers
are lost in the saturn moons for hours, wandering alien spaces,
the envy of no one, all the clocks crack the midnight bouquet,
the register rings, the phone rings, the manager scowls,
"Someone give her a hand!" mascara caked mystery howls
as her order nearly flips as the struggling waitress loses her tips,
and it never ends, the "help wanted" sign shines beneath the neon fright,
like moths attracted to lights, a newborn waddles inside.
a piece i was working on though i haven't written anything new in months
Chris T
Written by
Chris T
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