The Diner by Justin Boening
There’s a man that’s been waiting
in that red vinyl booth
for days. I’ve tried to ignore him
from behind my note pad,
but in the morning, barely able
to stand, I demand he tells me
how he takes his eggs.
He doesn’t move.
I pour a pot of hot coffee
straight into his lap. I start chanting
my college fight song
and pawing down all the blinds.
I press a butter knife
to my throat, throw an order of hash
against the wall. Once and for all
I prove I’m unemployable.
When it becomes clear
he won’t be convinced,
I pull the net from my tangled hair
and shuffle, slouched, into the farthest
corner in the place. I hide my face
behind a glossy menu. I close my eyes
and in no time I’m alone.
I hear people come, and people go.
From time to time, I glance
out the window, toward the traffic
buzzing by, hoping my waitress
might visit my table soon. Sometimes,
I sense I’m being spoken to
or scolded, while other times
I hear a woman crying, a car door
clicking open, then slamming shut,
a motorcycle revving alive,
then veering into traffic, but it seems
little ever truly changes, and I’ve been
waiting here, with the rest of you,
hungry for years.
Links of the Day: The Grand Budapest Hotel-inspired game