Salt and pepper shakers half filled. A bottle of ketchup.Waitress asks, you want any hot sauce ?

Names and numbers on bathroom stalls. Paper towels litter the floor. Sinks are wet. Water soaks into a sweatshirt when bending over to wash his hands. Pants are wet, too.

Tables wiped clean and booths swept under. Fries, pieces of bacon, bits of toast, empty packs of marmalade, wind up in a dust pan carried by a Mexican who doesn’t speak English.White men wearing MAGA hats; tee-shirts barely covering their hairy bellies.Women, far away, are waiting on them. 

Speakers blare out a country song. Someone singing about losing a loved one, heartache, and despair. More sugar is poured into coffee.

And I sit here in this torn leather seat reading Kerouac; tales of Sal Paradise and Dean Moriarty. Wishing I had money, honey. Wishing I had a home.