A metal framed door, thick with
chicken wire glass, opens with a rusty
song as midnight patrons scuff over a
black and white cracked tile floor
landing in a corner booth.
Familiar faces, hard eyes, hats
tipped, faded shirts and untied sneakers
whisper crackling news of cellophane
stories into leaning ears anxious for
unhinged thoughts.
It’s a place where dead end roads discover
solace. A section of time without clocks or
work day decisions determined by the
flip of a coin.
The door announces the in and out. Dead
flies end up on window sill graves. The cook
sneezes. The waitress’ have no name tags
but demand respect.
Roger Singer 