Bus Boy

The night finds a pitch

In the buzz and fizz of

unnatural light shining

by cords over dirty lunch counters.

Count the money and

make the change, you feel

deranged and defanged

as the blades of the spinning fan

creates a slashing shadow

that cuts across the room,

Darkness falls on ashtrays

And the runny yoke

Of eggs over easy.

Dream for a moment of

music from the dishwasher’s station,

Sad guitar strums, a farina organ,

lovely women in long red dresses

cooing to you in Spanish,

a comb falls from her hair,

yes, her with the brown eyes

and lips red as rubies under

glass and stage lighting,

she says

“Pick up on number 5”.

Pick up your feet

and dream a retreat to

other lands another time,

bus stations are over flowing

with dishes rather than wishes,

it’s wise to stack the plates

and sort the forks from the knives,

all the wives the contrary world

stare daggers at husbands

who only poke their food

kids who spoke too soon

get slapped and water spills

across the  thrills of  driving

 across the state,

  

We need pads of butter

and clean monkey dishes

and a bladder of milk

in the machine, we never close

and driving this time of night

in this country
just keeps the stomach

growling with it’s fill

of empty threats.