luncheonette
above and behind, an angel welcomes me in a cheap tinny din. am i dead, dying or somewhere between, like the sugar crusted counter before me and the residue of your sweet in my heart. my lungs sizzle with bacon fat and it’s a good thing because i’ve not much left of you to breathe in anymore. there’s a red stool and red nails carry a red-rimmed mug away and in my head i count the times the ghost of those lips grimaced when cooling the lie. who am i and where have you gone and why are the napkin cocooned knives so blunt? eventually shuffling forward, i take fate into shaking hands. your last gasp comes not accompanied with a movie reel of your greatest hits but atop a menu keen on choking the life force from your veins. this, the hell surely i earned but the impalpable angel once again clears its miserly throat and two old souls part the veil, fingers entwined. measuring my own, i realize sluggishly you still mar my gnarled emptiness. taught over and over breakfast is the most important meal of the day, i’ve lived famished on a diet of hope and silent ringtones and your wide eyes like the broken yolks of sunny-side up eggs but you’ve always hated eggs and it’s always killed me you’ve been so broken but i’ll love you like my last cup of coffee and you’ll stain my teeth twice as bad.
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© Copyright Joseph A. Pinto. All Rights Reserved.
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'From My Front Steps,' 'Scotch and Scars' and 'A Distilled Spirit' poetry collections available in paperback and ebook on Amazon.
