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They sat in an Abandoned Luncheonette |
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sipping imaginary cola and drawing faces in the tabletop dust |
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His voice was rusty from years as a sergeant on "this man's army" |
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they were old and crusty |
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She was twenty when the diner was a baby |
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He was the dishwasher, busy in the back, his hands covered with gravy |
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Hair black and wavy |
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Brilliantine slick, a pot - cleaning dandy, |
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He was young and randy |
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Day to day, to day... today |
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then they were old, their lives wasted away |
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Month to month, year to year |
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they all run together |
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time measured by the peeling of paint on the luncheonette wall |
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They sat together in the empty diner |
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filled with cracked china |
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Old news was blowing across the filthy floor |
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and the sign on the door read "this way out", that's all it read |
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that's all it said |
