Jazz hangs in the air as, the neon reflects off cold marble counters,
strawberry pie à la mode, black coffee steaming, Invites me.
and Old *** sits in A Booth, eating a meal paid for with loose change,
peddled on a corner from strangers.
My black book of poems sits next to me, begging me to fill those blank pages.
A widower sits at the counter, over a lonely meal,
ease dropping a poetic dalliance of late night lovers, remembering.
A waitress and cook consumed in a caffeine fueled debate.
The highway, carrying hungry travelers, in the cosmos of headlights.
To this Mecca of neon, chrome and porcelain,
where $.75 will get your cuppa coffee
and a life time of stores to consume.