Diner Noir

Thinking about you,
sitting in this diner,
wishing I could smoke in here.
Looking around at the
red and white
checkerboard tiling and
the vinyl seats.
God, you'd love this place.
They're playing some
kind of old jazz and
it's got me all tangled up
in old thoughts.
Waitress wants to know
what I want, and I can't
bring myself
to try
the special, so I'm stuck
with a hamburger.
She winks at me
as she turns to go,
but she's at least 50, and
not my type anyway
(never liked peroxide blondes).
Looking across the restaurant
at the mirror hung in
a neon-and-glass frame.
I look
different,
but I think it's just
the eyeliner.
Thought I'd be
used to you
not being here
by now.
Some things never get easier.
There's a picture of
James Dean
that was autographed (yeah,
autographed my ass) right by
the doorway,
and a plastic tree
in the corner.
The counter has a
hula girl lamp.
The waitress (her name is
Annie) brings me my burger,
and I sit and chew thoughtlessly.
Mediocre,
but they make up for it
with the prices.
Really wish I could
take off my
fedora and smoke.
But one without the other
would feel silly, so
I'll just sit here
and wish.
And let Doris Day say
whatever she has to say.
I'm posing,
and I know it.
Not quite who
I thought I would be
tonight.
But I haven't been
since you left.
Feel like a good
old-fashioned
drunk tonight,
but I'll probably
just curl up and watch
an old movie on TV.
Things never come out
quite the way I plan them.