The Diner

The chatter, the clatter, the sizzling of bacon.
Words from the adjacent booth like,
military, research, great movie, Steve Colbert.
Unable to make sense of the any of the conversations.
How disappointing for the eavesdropping, people-watcher that I am.

The waitress remembers me and brings a cup of flavored coffee to my table.
"More coffee."  A nearby patron holds up his mug.
"This is flavored. I'll be right back with regular for you."
She smiles that waitress smile... the smile that wants her well-deserved tip,
but can't wait for each and every one of us to leave.

The young, trim and firm, tattooed waitress wears her tight jeans as pelvic huggers. 
I wore hip huggers... now this.  How low can jeans be worn I wonder,
and will the youth of the future break obscenity laws?

A mountain of home fries sits toward the back of the grill.
A small pile of this morning staple is pulled forward by the short order cook,
who wears his blue bandana tied tightly to his skull.
The homes fries are added to the eggs and toast order.. the number 9..coffee not included.

The arms of the ceiling fans turn like the second hand of a clock,
but the perpetually twirling arms never quite cool the diner to a comfortable temperature.

More clatter, more chatter, more sizzling of bacon.
Dirty plates and mugs are carried off by a young female
who may be apprenticing for the next waitress job that opens up.

"Kathy," the cook yells out, and an obedient waitress rushes over to pick up and deliver
the ham and eggs and toast to a short, pudgy man with glasses who dons a Red Sox baseball cap.  How odd that eight of the ten men sitting at the counter continue to wear their cap as they eat their breakfast while either reading the morning paper or chatting with the congenial waitress.

Twenty minutes later we leave taking the greasy smell of the diner with us.