She lived in a land
of hash browns and
greasy countertops.
Where half-eaten pie
sat beneath a grimy dome,
where the coffee was always brewing
and the barstools had beige upholstery
that had split open
like a wound.
At the cash register sat Peggy
a new romance paperback every day,
spine broken,
a bright red press-on nail
gliding under each word as she read.
Sometimes a song came from
the glowing amber jukebox next to the men’s room
and that song
would make the waitress think
of her son,
it would be the kind of music he liked,
all noise and make up.
She would smile
in a melancholy way.
She always smiled at the wrong time.
Smirking at the boy’s funeral
as his father made a scene,
an obedient new wife at his side.
Hollow, with a
bemused expression
she had pretended not to hear the whispers
of gossiping mourners.
She refilled the coffee cup
of a trucker who looked
at her with disinterested,
piggy eyes.
Twenty years ago, he would
have called her “sugar”
and left a large tip,
winking at her
as he took a toothpick.
In the corner booth
were teenagers
who called her “ma’am”
in a way that made her feel old.
In the back was Frank
the fry cook
who still helped her into her coat
and held doors for her.
A good man
a vanishing species.
Sometimes,
when it was slow,
she’d stand back there with Frank
as he talked about his grandkids
and she’d stare into the
bubbling oil
and fight the urge
to dive headfirst.
I love this, and also your Some Thoughts on Math 101. Both are pieces I will have to come back and read again when the moment is right. So much spontaneity and realism. I personally think free verse is much harder to get, “just right,” but this really nailed it in my opinion. Very much enjoyed, thank you.