There’s a man that’s been waiting
\nin that red vinyl booth
\nfor days. I’ve tried to ignore him
\nfrom behind my note pad,
\nbut in the morning, barely able
\nto stand, I demand he tells me
\nhow he takes his eggs.
\nHe doesn’t move.<\/p>\n
I pour a pot of hot coffee
\nstraight into his lap. I start chanting
\nmy college fight song
\nand pawing down all the blinds.
\nI press a butter knife
\nto my throat, throw an order of hash
\nagainst the wall. Once and for all
\nI prove I’m unemployable. <\/p>\n
When it becomes clear
\nhe won’t be convinced,
\nI pull the net from my tangled hair
\nand shuffle, slouched, into the farthest
\ncorner in the place. I hide my face
\nbehind a glossy menu. I close my eyes
\nand in no time I’m alone.
\nI hear people come, and people go.
\nFrom time to time, I glance
\nout the window, toward the traffic
\nbuzzing by, hoping my waitress
\nmight visit my table soon. Sometimes,
\nI sense I’m being spoken to
\nor scolded, while other times
\nI hear a woman crying, a car door
\nclicking open, then slamming shut,
\na motorcycle revving alive,
\nthen veering into traffic, but it seems
\nlittle ever truly changes, and I’ve been
\nwaiting here, with the rest of you,
\nhungry for years. <\/p>\n