A smudged light struggles to the sidewalk,
escaping past greasy diner windows,
blurring its last strength onto a traffic burdened surface.
Lonely faces, fat arms, tattoos of knives and
bleeding hearts pass under the tide of night.
Hats tipped. Collars up. Nervous hands.
Fists clenched. Fingers pointing. Unwashed faces.
For all who seek, there is a space.
Booths fill and empty on the shoreline of dirty
tiles. Discarded napkins hold phone numbers and
names; promises of passion Voices rise and fall.
Words mingle with smoke and whispers.
The city diner knows them all.
Roger Singer 