Off balanced laboring fans push
diner air onto walls
stained yellow.
Customers lean over tables, whispering,
pointing fingers and then laughing,
breaking into the clatter of plates and silverware.
Waitress’ weave around tables
delivering the beginning of meals.
Counter people nod to the cook
who prepares their regular.
The door opens. Cold air rushes in lifting
napkins and checkered tablecloth corners.
Tables empty and then quickly refill with
tides of faces and hands.
The corner booth is the best.
previously published in Zylophone eZine.
Roger Singer 