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.


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