she wore rock 'n roll
on her arms
with variations
of roy
g
biv
ink.

rubber bands monitored
the morning madness
of her hair, some
spilling over her
cerulean eye shadow
chaos.

her appearance
was as inviting as her
sad sneaker scuffs
towards my table.

in between mumbles
and mastications of her
pen,
she nodded at my
order
as she poured
my coffee.

i wondered what her name
was as she took her time
to the kitchen.

all the others
dashed their meal tickets
and bottles of ketchup
to and from tables,

creating breezes
smelling of pancakes and bacon,
their plaited hair bouncing behind
their hurried steps.

my waitress'
come back came
two cigarettes later;
my coffee cooled.
i inquired about jam
for my butterless breakfast.

her leather belts lips
flashed a nicotine
yellow smile,
but
still no haste in her step
as she turned to retrieve
my raspberry jam.

the realization of her
mangled memory
drove me to finish
my cold, sugarless
coffee and regret
the taste of my toast
as I watched her sit
down at the corner of
the bar and read the
newspaper.