purpose of the song

red syrup lips and melodramatic coffee

with one too many sugars in,

cinnamon toast with a slather of butter

melting slowly into a last tango,

short neck ached and rolled his head

in no hurry to retire as master of the stool,

radio perched on corner shelf

gave a soundtrack that a morning

this dull needed

rain that sometimes threw itself

against glass so vision streaked,

another diner who had rig outside

looked vacuous as if part of his brain

had disengaged permanently ,

sumptuous toast bite  butter ran

from the corner of his mouth

damn he needed a bib,

a single paper napkin dabbed it away

as he looked at her again

violet on the name badge

next time passing caught her arm

fingers harmlessly easing pressure

and made his smile as vibrant as

possible,

when do you get off

with a sassy shimmy and smirk

eat your toast and drink your coffee

then you will know,

he loved the manipulative tone

of his falling into a trap

that passion had sprung

gulping with an eager tremor

knowing he was ready

Sunday Whirl

 

Under Shapes

i have let go the balloon

so all of montana

can see,

red adventurous not dismal

and shallow,

beyond flatness

and interjection of mountain

spike,

i remember the waitress

she with black flat shoes

that squeak,

luscious hips that waved

not so discretely,

in these moments

pulling collar tighter

with the encroaching cold,

that seemed to affect the

mind,

so that all i could do

in conversation or

thought is waffle