Mel's place


Sitting at the laminate counter-top
admiring the wood panelling
over a wheezing cough,
filthy melted snow drips onto
mass produced one inch squared
tiled flooring

I notice the counter edge pressing
against my chest, worn down from
years of elbow polishing
by men waiting around
for the next piece of apple pie
with bad coffee,
or the cheap sickly pink
cherry malt milkshake back in
the day of sock hops
white Marlon Brando sleeves rolled up
with stale packs of Chesterfields tucked inside

There is no magic here anymore,
only memories I observed in
films, fairy tale stories of high school
sweethearts with slicked pomade
switchblade combed hair, too tight
pants wrapped around bony nineteen-50’s
Olivia Newton-John female greaser hips,
begging to have a cheap tin-ring
hanging from their necks

No one will come to fix the tares in
these booths,
roller skate girls have been replaced by
failed actresses who will not lull you in
drooping tits of three childbirth deep
hot coffee
one-AM apple pie

These pleather covered museums
littering suburbia mazes,
meth cook desert highways,
long arteries of back road America

There will be no finding magic
between the knobby knees of a
porcelain skinned high-school
sweetheart on her fifteen minute break, while
pink roller skates scratch your mint dash
in your chopped, flame retching matte black
nineteen-forty-nine Mercury coupe

There is no magic left,
save for flies head-banging the glass
window, praying to red neon light gawds
with a droning indiscernible buzzing tone of
”Always Open”

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