Women sit in a booth caked in grease
and overexposed skin, deepening reds
in the failing light.

Their hair is tangled,
they stare across the table with barely white
eyes, smile lines a vague
reminiscence of manners past.

The man's stomach rolls
across the narrow table,
pushing plates and clammy,
pop filled glass into a jammed heap,
yet there is little reflection to be seen.

I stand at attention,
mired with orders.

The smells crawl through my head
lingering long after the doors are locked.

I wish, I was okay with this.