CORNER TABLE AT THE DINER

corner table at the diner
flickering light, bitchy waitress
slightly burnt toast, very runny eggs
smoking cigarettes in the non-smoking section
she provides the coffee, i’ll put the other stuff in.

pulling the lighter from my coat pocket
frost on the window
a spark from the red bic
the strange glaze of blue streetlight humming
into the metal clacking of the yellow cafe

a couple quietly fighting across the way
some demon man and his banshee lady
trying to keep their voices below the jukebox
it becomes irrelevant
we can fill in the story for ourselves
we’ve all lived it
we’ve all stared into the death of eyes
looked at lips like a sinking cargo ship
we’ve all ate our food in silence
across from someone we used to love
this too is a form of prayer

corner table at the diner
the booze hit the bottom and i’m speaking for the man
filling in the gaps in his broken apology
‘i’m sorry’ is the bullet in the pistol
when you have every intention of firing

corner table at the diner
stools squeaking
she leaves the table
into the winter, off of the stage
she exits stage left
he remains center stage
silence

long pause. silence. lights dim a bit.
the remaining actor paces slowly from the table
and takes his seat
corner table at the diner
fade to black
curtains

COPYRIGHT BRICE MAIURRO 2015

Author: brice maiurro

Denver poet. Author of Stupid Flowers, out now through Punch Drunk Press.

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