A jukebox holds a corner
of the room hostage.
Half lit. Its neon’s struggle
to blink. A scratchy song
labors in love. Diner patrons
huddle in whispers. A black
and white checkered floor supports
night traffic. Crumpled napkins
on the tables; one has a phone
number written in red. Green
cracked seat cushions welcome
the tired and depressed. The cook
rings a bell. Liver and onions,
extra gravy. The lone waitress
invented slow motion. An oily
aroma searches for victims. Untied
shoes. Shirts missing buttons.
Hats tipped. Heavy mascara.
Leather jackets. Men with tattoos
and toothpicks. The song skips,
holding onto one word. No one
notices.
Roger Singer 