The Diner

There is this Diner that I frequent where the waitresses are always friendly.
The food always comes slow but I don’t mind.

I don’t wait to be seated anymore,
They know what time I come in and my booth is always empty.
The silverware wrapped tightly in the paper napkin sits on the table, next to the menu.

When I sit down, I always tighten the salt and pepper caps.
There must be a family with children who frequent like me,
but the children will never know that I always ruin their trap
and no one at this booth will ever dump the entire shakers contents.

My Wednesday waitress quietly slips from the kitchen and over to my booth;
and no matter how many times I order “the usual,” she always asks.

I try to ignore the couple in the corner booth,
but they are speaking loud so I listen to their conversation
while I pretend to read the menu, even though I’ve already ordered.

By the time their conversation turns to politics, I am already distracted;
and my cross-eyed stare at the door to the kitchen
and my half-sipped ice-water leaving wet rings on the table
seem to be hints at the hundreds of thoughts in my head.

My Wednesday finally brings my food, and a smile.
And in that moment I can’t help but think—
She is the only reason I come to the Diner
And I might be the only reason she works here.