GETTING BETTER ALL THE TIME 

I made it a week in the back of the diner 
on 9th street next to the train yard with 
the morning freights shaking the kitchen 
and the Sun fucking with me.

used to come in an hour before dawn 
to be the first eating the two dollar eggs 
with bacon & toast, with coffee, no sugar, 
and Perez cooking up some for himself.

Sandra sat next to me fidgeting, waiting 
for the day's first customer, with her apron 
tied and ready, bleached and cleaned and 
in the pocket she finds her son's pacifier.

by noon, I'm washing and rinsing, drying 
wiping the counters clean, busing the tables 
sneaking hennessy and joints in back 
turning up the radio, oldies station playing 
Otis Redding, 
Temptations, 
Beach Boys.

the owner caught me drunk on a Wednesday 
sitting out back, watching the freights rumble 
fighting the urge to disappear, unfancy myself 
fired on the spot and paid out of the register.

gets me on a Greyhound to Texas. 
 
 
 

F.D. Marcél wanders around, haunts your local Labor Ready, writes like its magic, loves what you've done with the place, sleeps comfortably, etc.