Surrealism in a Denny’s Booth

I sit across from them,
the Harlequin and the opera singer.
Watching them compete for my attention
with words spoken and hearts open.
They could operate their own reality show,
each poem he reads, she claps and snaps fingers
each poem she reads, he gloats the first stanza

but they don’t own up to being each other’s biggest fans.

They are a couple of cool cats, their voices
continuously smoothing onto the tacky countertop,
the sinking seats,
the walkway to and from the bathroom.
The swish of her feline face unrolls her snark
Volleying to and fro with the stretch of his laughter.

I never thought I would while away here
rapt with the novelty of artists outside their habitat
this sinkhole of resignation
complete with soggy bacon
infiltrated with the flora and fauna of found
Not one more spectator
to this synesthesia of sound and sense
and milkshake
creating flavors in my head
I never knew were there.


Talk at me while I eat

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