Poem 16: Three A.M. Pancakes

The waitress is sleepy and so am I.
She’s seen better days, and so have I.
I tell her what I’m doing, up writing
poetry until the cows come home.
She pops her gum, her only comment,
and ambles off with the coffee pot.
I want to say, “Please leave it here,”
but this isn’t that kind of place.
For one thing, the carafe isn’t thermal,
so it would get cold quickly, and then
where would I be? I have to be content
to wait until she remembers me, between
the truck driver with the bad cough and
the teenagers texting each other across
the booth behind me, the F word back
and forth. I want to ask if their parents
know where they are, but they have their
poetry, too, as well as their doom. I want

them to stay here forever,

whispering and giggling.

Leave a Reply

Your email address will not be published. Required fields are marked *