To Listen to Music While Reading this Poem, just Click Here!
Click Here To add this poem to your "Voting Possibilities" list!
Roman's Diner at Eleven Sharp. and never late. her Roman knows: Diet Coke large, just a little ice, the glass, not, it, plastic, like the red covering on the stool on which she slowly turns, back and forth, a rhythm he dares not watch for long, a white straw, with the flexible elbows, not like hers, soft, feminine and, always, soup of the day, and, also always, a Turkey and Swiss like clockwork on Rye, toasted lightly, sliced perfectly in half symmetrical triangles Mayo, Dijon mustard, side of cottage cheese, a firm, crisp Polish dill, (he thinks of himself every time he serves one) on the off-white china with the green trim the last booth, dines alone every day at eleven a tear sometimes, but never smokes nice dresser good looks her Roman nose thin, wire rims, becoming has large books always reading while eating once she looked up but has not for several months he wonders why wonders what she’s like if she suspects him. he’s smoking, harder now, watching the smoke curl up as it hits the jet stream in the upper atmosphere of the (his) little diner where a fan catches it and sends it out the back into the alley where he parks the pick-up. wonders where she works probably an exec-sec or, just maybe, she is the exec (he can’t go there…) is there a man? probably, or, gods forbid, a woman? or better yet, both? but, why does she eat here? she dresses so nicely smells good to him nice stockings without the usual runs matching shoes, flats the appropriate accessories what’s she hiding from? a divorce, an affair or two? a past or a present from which she can’t escape? kids? not that that’d stop him. Roman wants to know wants to care needs to care about something more than the Soup du jour. |
Sorry, there are no critiques for this poem in our system... If the poem is older, the critiques have been purged!