Hipster Joint
The Blue Plate Special lacks appeal.
Her night time cleaves like marbled muscle.
A toque folds whites in pecan batter.
It blisters, pops on stainless steel.
The ipod numbs the diner hustle.
She jams a slip on the order wheel.
A holiday of girls—their laughs peal.
Shunted childhood.
Shrugging chatter.
Out back she strikes, ignites the beast.
Her cool lips disturb my labile lust.
Our feet find something desert creased—
black cherried butt, charred muffin crust.
Ring-a-ding. Dawn
released.
Ding-a-ling. Her
tables bussed.
No comments:
Post a Comment