The Booth in the Corner

 

“Are you still waiting, honey?” the waitress asked, coffee pot in hand as she approached the booth. I wondered how the answer wasn’t obvious since I was still sitting alone. I tapped my cigarette with my forefinger just over the rim of the ashtray as I nudged my mug toward her.

“Yes, ma’am,” I answered as she filled the cup, a motion so smooth and exact it could almost be called graceful. “Thanks.”

Her smile held an admirable amount of teeth for a Waffle House waitress. “No problem, sugar.” Squinting to prevent smoke from getting in my eyes, I exhaled audibly and reached for the sugar dispenser. Sweetener poured as I counted to three in my head, the last number stretched long enough to warrant a few more E‘s were it spelled phonetically. I stubbed out my cigarette with my right hand while stirring coffee with a spoon in my left, the jaded, young adult equivalent of patting your head while rubbing your stomach. Continue reading…

Killer Deer Jerky

 

An obese man in a wheelchair sits alongside
a busy highway, prime real estate for refinery workers
hungry at shift’s end. As carcinogens billow behind him,
he hawks strips of dried venison from coolers in the
bed of his truck, mimicking pioneers like Kraft and
Oscar Mayer.

Who knows? This man, in time, could be driving around
our great land in a car shaped like a rabid Bambi,
an old Grand Marquis with antlers so tall, routes will be
planned around low bridges. Our grandkids may enjoy
convenient, squeezable bottles of Killer Deer Jerky
brand meat product in containers designed to fit
the cup holders of their electric cars.

For now, he sits under his canopy,
building his tarpaulin empire one Ziploc bag at a time.

Lover’s Quarrel

 

Claws came out and we tore into each other’s

faults, rending self-worth from bone with hateful haste.

Our first fight may have been vicious,

but the make-up sex was animalistic.

 

Our bodies growled spiteful words

in wet whispers, rhythmic echoes

of the passionate indictments we had

just apologized for.

 

I’ll show you sorry, said

each thrust

each fresh bruise

each bead of sweat

each kiss.

 

Our muscles weren’t chiseled

as sharply as our tongues,

but they all were working

hard.