The sheen of check-board linoleum…
I glide to an abandoned barstool,
burgundy vinyl, the seat still warm.

Through a twilight window,
shadows pass anonymous greetings
as if trapped in glass. I reach into
my picked-over pockets for dimes
never fitting that stubborn juke I kick
wanting, waiting to hear
any love song,
dead people singing oldies.

A woman in a red dress looks ready
to deliver unwanted children
to wanted men, their pictures
on post office walls.
Together, we close our
soft shade eyelids, avoid
the rude awakening by sunlight.