She measured her life
In cigarettes that looped
Bluely through her lungs
On breaks she’d take
Whenever the hell
She felt like it
On the back stoop,
Staying warm in winter
By standing in the blast
Of the exhaust fan.
She knew the menu
By heart. Any changes
She wrote in herself
In blue pen on the clear
Plastic laminate.
For instance, no more
Liver and onions.
No one ordered it
Enough to bother
Ordering it in.
There weren’t any
Specials and if you asked
If there were you were
Not from around there,
But then she already
Knew that. She lived
Back of the diner
In a camper van
With expired plates
From the state she’d been
A girl once in.
She never said what
It was had brought her there,
Nor did anyone know
Whether she’d ever
Loved or been loved,
Though she was loved,
Though not in that way.
Beloved. Some claimed
She played favorites and that
If you weren’t one
She’d ignore you.
But if you were
A regular,
Or if you had manners,
Or a hangover,
Or were missing
Fingers, she’d come
Straightaway and warm
Up the black heart
Of your coffee.
Otherwise,
She couldn’t be rushed.
She suffered bad
Tips like a horse
Suffers flies.
She couldn’t care less
What you left her.
Warm up the black 🖤 of your coffee! Love that line!