Every hour seems happy hour
in this diner on some corner,
the coffee pot fresh and warm,
each table a worn flower.
She passes her reflection
in the silence of the old
jukebox, vacant these many
years, and fingers a grey hair
wistfully behind one ear.
He sees her waiting all hours,
having come to occupy
the booth outside her kitchen.
He orders breakfast, coffee and eggs,
for lunch, her meatloaf and mashed,
later in the afternoon, a milkshake
and fries, on the radio
a Bach organ squeezed, strained
through a deep, golden tuba.
But he did not notice who left her
the short note in her tip jar.
The Coming of the Toads 