What kind of real choice can I make sitting at 2:28 in the a.m. over old motor oil passed off as coffee with cottage cheese cream and sugar chunks that won't pour right cause the brown crust on the metal flap on the dispenser won't scrape off even against the harder brown crust on the butter knife that can’t saw its way through my cold plastic pancakes with that bitter salt flavor no matter how thick I paint on the syrup cause the old sailor in the charcoal dirty off white V-neck T-shirt who doesn't own a razor or a mirror working the grill is too stoned to function and didn’t mix the baking soda into the batter all the way at the all night family diner between the adult bookstore with the flashing neon sign where the other old man in the ripped overcoat at the end of the counter came from and is telling the smiling nodding busboy who cant understand a word of the old man’s dirty English what he got for his old lady in the black plastic bag and the empty gravel lot with the junked hatchback with the bullet holes in the windshield and two good tires one flat and a milk crate and a busted passenger side window with glass shards still on the seat and an orange abandoned vehicle sticker on the driver's side where even the smeared diamond windows on the double doors to the kitchen don't hide the waitress sneaking a smoke without even going near the backdoor cause it's ten below without the wind chill factor and the smell of rancid fruit and spoiled eggs from yesterday's garbage left in the dumpster along with the burnt fat drippings from the grease trap that leaks onto the asphalt of the parking lot making puddles of yesterday's grease that are invisible in the dark of the busted streetlamp is still carrying heavy in the air and has soaked into her ketchup and syrup stained apron which doubles as her towel even though she isn't washing her hands anyway after her smoke and my nose is still stuffy and runny after using the last ripped piece of coffee stained paper napkin cause I spilled on my arm when it was first searing hot and it still hurts along with my swollen red and white knuckles from when I punched the brick wall outside in the parking lot under the violators will be towed sign that hangs too low and the bruises and cuts are healing as slow as the waitress with my refills? But

the coffee is still coming and
the pancakes are still waiting and
I am still sitting and still sipping and
still eating and still spilling and
still watching and still listening and

still healing but
still dying

and still wanting to not go
cause the here and now is
still better than the there and then
and after I finally get a few more clean napkins

the only real choice I can make
is to stay.

Copyright © 2007 Dempsey Lagrimas Jr.