I can still see the lights flashing
off the walls of the Crossroads Cafe
the red and blue turrets spinning gyroscopically
as they loaded the old guy in the ambulance  
sliding the gurney in
like a tray of bread into the oven  
but that old guy ain’t getting cooked
and coming out smelling fresh  
they worked on him ten minutes
on that ***** diner linoleum  
while our food got cold  
three of us, at least, punched in 911
on our cells, all being told by the dispatch  
the paramedics were already on their way  
like maybe someone had a crystal ball
and knew the ancient diner  
was going to fall flat on the floor
when he got up to pay his check
(for $4.88 I think)  
I could see three quarters on the Formica
his silver goodbye to the world  
his gift to some faceless waitress
who would not sleep that night
without an extra couple of beers
because his face,  contorted and staring
into the florescent haze above him,
would still be in her head
when she closed her eyes…  
after the cops and the paramedics
disappeared into the night  
I ate what was left of my cold eggs and hash  
when I got up to pay, my chest felt tight,
only for a second, under that same buzzing light,  
when I crossed the spot where the old guy had lain  
a fat roach made its way across the floor
through the last somber slobber
the man would ever drip  
I crushed him casually,
remembering  
I had forgotten
the tip