Diner Fantasy

in a diner on the side of the highway
my pudgy hands pours coffee
my beard takes orders at the bar

we have hot soup du jour, burgers and eggs
hitchers, truckers, farmers and bums

Doris DeLynn serves steaks and hash
her make-up cracks when she winks an eye

we stay open all night – every night – no fail
drifters come and go with bindle in hand

pastel blue table-cloths weep over rose bouquets
plucked from a garden stuck out in back

every other day, mood willing, Doris takes me
a tired, sticky mess in that old, dusty office
I picture prom queens and flings, long since gone

then the day arrives she leaves me for good
trades in for a salesman who drives a big Ford
and carries a card, a briefcase and such
she’ll move to the city and grow fat as his wife

I’ll grow old and bitter until I shoot myself
in the office where Doris used to take me

no one will come to that old diner again

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