THE WAITRESS WHO SERVES TIME

the waitress who serves time in an all-nite diner where we see our reflections in the windows, and seconds are on the house . . .

minutes lovingly baked into pies . . . hours served in a hot and steamy stew . . . years in yummy sandwiches until the diner runs out of bread . . . (time can smell like a very old house with cookies baking in the oven, and then eating them and they are gone to crumbs)


in the corner, the (virtual) death of distance, absently muttering his last words while the waitress leans over to hear, exposing the beating of her heart

I REALLY CAN’T STAY; BUT, BABY, IT’S OLD OUTSIDE
(with apologies to Fran Loessor)

. . . loud music at the Inn of the Earth . . . a young woman moves to drumbeat . . . a man watches . . . ritual flirting . . . odor of past nights’ drinks on the sticky floor . . . Age and Youth whisper meaningless phrases, hands touching ears . . . “I really can’t stay,” he says . . . she says, “But, baby, it’s old outside” . . . he buys her a Fog of the Coast . . . cold to the hand, chillingly damp . . . she won’t dance alone . . .

“I’ve got to go away” . . . “But, baby, it’s old outside” . . . she moves closer, tempting . . . smiles . . . averts her eyes . . . tilts her head . . . rubs playfully . . . hip to hip, then ass to groin . . .

“This evening has been so very nice; well, maybe just a half a drink more” . . . the feel of flesh moving under denim . . . “I wish I knew how to break your spell” . . . the tingle of Fog, exciting . . .

“I simply must go” . . . “But, baby, it’s old out there” . . .

exiting into darkness . . . rain on the car almost as loud as music on the long drive home . . . distant horizontal lightning . . . dark solitude, listening to heavy raindrops in gravity . . .

MOVEMENT, WITH ALFALFA & COWBOY BOOTS

the sandpaper shuffle of dancers going in circles . . . the sound of an obscure honky-tonk singer who ought to be famous . . . old men dancing with as many young women as they can one last time . . . what the young women want . . . the nature of relationships, played out with alcohol and expectations . . . the cavernous, low-ceiling dancehall illuminated by strings of tiny lights, the corners of the room as dark as far universes . . . the ridiculous notion that circus -- all entertainment -- grew from religious ritual . . . I look at my muse across the table and motion that it’s time to go. We stand up and walk out the door into the gravel parking lot together, and we walk away in opposite directions.