I look at you
through the window
at your face.
Awash
in a swirling sea of pale grays
under the fluorescent
electric suns of
breakfast mornings,
hiding from the moon.
Body draped
in a bleach stained blue t-shirt.
A punch hole patron
sitting
eating
drinking
and thinking, what?
at the Golden Gables
24-hour diner
all pall bearer solemn
on a Thursday night.
Alone.
Weary eyed with
hair slicked back
into a sad thinning mullet
brooding
over cups of coffee
and white ovals
drowning with the grease
of Midwest American obesity.
Bulging gut
resting and breathing
on the plastic wood
of the table while
you beg the dangling
red-headed cigarette
to take you soon,
to make good on their promises
as even the smoke
leaves you
alone.
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