Where The Stars Meet at Night

The chilly blast of air
Is balanced by the
Warm smiles I am
Greeted by.

Led parallel to the
Glass-block windows,
My summer skin
Distorts and
Reflects the sunshine.

The amoebic pattern
Of the old seats
Draws my eyes from the
Traffic racing towards
Something better.

As the repairman teeters
Eerily on his creaky ladder,
The glass fixture
Bumps against the
Freshly lit bulb.
His paint-speckled pants
Are too baggy for his thin legs.

Two old men are discussing
Something.
One is concerned, for
The furrowed mustache,
Framing his chattering lip,
Mirrors his eyebrows.

The screech of
Clumsy, black shoes
Scuffs the speckled tile.
The girl behind the glass panel
Jumps in surprise.
She glances at her calm grandfather,
And laughs.

The jam packets
Spill over the side of
The glass bowl;
American flags circle the
Brim and the white stars shine.

The frills of the toothpick
Pinning my sandwich together
Litter the table in
Memories of picnics and
Grass-combing breezes.
Sweeping them off
My toasted bread
Is not an easy task.

Neon signs,
Vacant of light,
Glint in the hard sunlight.
The breeze wafts through
My hair and
New cars pass by.
My appetite is satiated,
Thanks to the corner of
Blackland and Roswell.