blue plate special

it's quality time
in a westbury diner
with three neon lights
like three suns, above us,
in a 50's motif.

the waitress speaks english
like i speak chinese
but still gives a smile
that looks like a slice
of the waning half-moon.

outside there are puddles,
lake-size, on the pavement.
inside we stay silent
and stare through the windows
(our way of conversing).

so faint the impression
of our quiet presence:
formica reflecting
the double pale circles
of our neutral faces,

two backwards expressions that
flirt with each other.
the state of affairs
where gestures are phrases
and sighs punctuation.

it's midnight by now.
the food, on arrival,
is duly ignored
except for the coffee.
it burns our tongues well.

a few crumpled dollars
atop the worn menu
like rudely-used kleenex
announce our departure
with wry symbolism,

and so, thus fulfilled,
we rise with our love
for the novelty action
of leaving together,
and walk out in tandem.