Part 1: Danielle

She hands notes to the cook
as she rushes past the grill
that is visible from the counter,
through the swinging door leading into "the back"
where more dishes and tubs of julienned potatoes for hash browns
mysteriously appear.
If she passes through that door
she hasn't left you.
She is still serving you.
She works fast,
fighting through the occasional mixup
that leaves coffee cold and turns biscuits & gravy into an
omelette,
smoking a cigarette when she has the chance,
hating it all.

Part 2: The Cook

The cook spreads the same liquid on the toast and the grill with
a brush.
Some sort of universal serum
to make the food go down easier.

I wonder why the cook has a pager,
some hopeful sign that he has a life beyond this tile-walled
world.
Without the pager he wouldn't know when he was needed.
He would either be in the diner or his upstairs apartment
waiting on the next shift to start
listening to Christmas carols, the Doors and Louis Armstrong
coming through the vents, from the jukebox, to his room
keeping him up
through his short shift of sleep.
He doesn't wear an apron,
just those 30/30 Levi's with a woven leather belt
a t-shirt proclaiming the diner's 24/7 status
shoes on feet you can't see
and the pager on his hip.

3 and 4 AM rushes stopped astonishing him long ago.
If he is always awake then why
shouldn't the rest of the world be
joining him, helping behind the counter and complimenting him on
the eggs
even if they are the wrong order?


Part 3: Happily Ever After

I walk past the barbarian pinball
and sit at the counter
next to catsup, napkin dispenser, sugar container,
and menus with maps on them
so you can find the way home.

I gesture quickly to the coffee cup, as Danielle glances by,
hoping not to upset the rhythm she's established.
I can see falling in love with her.

My tips for Danielle are gratuitous
left with a knowing look,
contributions to a secret fund we will use to run away
freed from this neon and fluorescent light
with the jukebox beating out Christmas carols
the whole diner knows.
They let her know they know
by singing loud.

Then on the day I do finally step,
with Danielle,
through the hinged sections of formica at the end of the counter
and the swinging gray door of the back
we will live happily forever
as I don an apron of my own
to cook for her.