Call It Prayer

Waitress hustle, middle-aged skin, a wrinkle of time...servitude of rancid cream and pales of sweetner. Gibbering old men spy nylon stockings, baby blue smocks in waiting...cups of white porcelain coffee, counter tops in patina of grease, oil, and lost dreams. Cross dressed with bee-hive hair, whiff of cheap perfume, smart-eyes lose to the sizzle of night; the waitress hustle... gibbering old men call gamblers and pimps, late night owls, hawks of darkness, sinners in the church of moonless prayer.