Sympathy Jukebox / This Nocturnal Diner
dawn is a muted memory
in this nocturnal diner
no nights elapsed
no new day perched
on the horizon never approaching
the stillness in my bones
communion found
with the coffee staling
in its idle pot
lukewarm
communion found
with the few haggard faces
greying around me
the tight-lipped waitress
cigarette smoke
hailing from her breath
more often than speech
weary-eyed man sat in the corner
always in hand
a beer too many
framed with vacant stools
he’s doing rounds with ghosts
he wishes he could join
we’re living and dying
all in the same breathe
leaning and dying
unhurried
who’s in a rush these days anyway?
it’s a loitering graveyard
in this nocturnal diner
fraudulent flesh
what inspiring camaraderie
cosmos contained
in this very room
nothing stretches beyond
the clutch
of its neon glow
in a permeating darkness
those stretching streets are illusory
simulated by the colours of the day
ushered out by the flavours of the night
and only that is true
only that is real
don’t be made a fool of
within these four corners
matchbox of mystery
matchbox of misery
strike one light one
let it burn burn burn
you know me
I couldn’t bear the sputter
a quiet death is a waste
rinse and repeat
wax and wane
the fire will be gone by morning
unflinching bastards
imitating the impenetrable
is solace on the menu tonight?
how ‘bout a side of your deepest condolences?
I turn to the work-shy jukebox
offering coins to the slot
like indulgences
consecrate these pennies
consecrate these dimes
this is the only prayer I know
shake the silence
oh sympathy jukebox
play me the birdsong
of a maimed magpie
waiting for the quiet
your rhythmic clicking
and whirring
the mechanical beat
of a heart
born out of bethlehem
grant benevolence grant bounty
consecrate my pennies
consecrate my dimes
I’m feeling for a god
I don’t believe in
tonight
bell rings door swings
a couple steps in
and nobody turns
welcome to our crippled club of sorts
sorry you caught us on a bad night
ha ha
I watch them pick the worst table
I listen to their conversation
about little nothings
still the most
that’s been said all evening
every evening
night shift usurped
from the
misanthropes and mavericks
is solace on the menu tonight?
how ‘bout a side of your deepest condolences?
she’s the worst kind of woman
and he’s the worst kind of man
I’m a loather not a fighter
her laughter’s synthetic
I find her mink coat tacky
his southern drawl is irritating
american dream wannabe
I wish you’d impale me
with that white picket fence
but even then
for a moment
for a split second
I thought
if I pulled a chair
between them
lay my head on the table
and shut my eyes
without a word
her hand might linger on mine
his hovering
above my shoulder
paternal pat frozen
she’s not my best kind of woman
he’s not my best kind of man
but maybe
for a little while
even the not-best-kind
might feel sorry for me
in this nocturnal diner
