A jukebox. Records scared
with scratches twists songs
for a dime. Wallpaper stares
over stained floors. Voices speak
coffee. Forks curl through
pie and meat loaf.
A screen door. Green.
Marked with the oil of hands.
Hinges squeak. Flies wrestle for freedom
on a windowsill. A song drifts homelessly.
Heads nod. A finger taps. Grease spatters.
Toast with butter. People in and out.
Roger Singer 