words

i go to the diner
because i enjoy listening
to the hardened women speak.
they rattle off complaints
like bullets with no regard
for who is near.
long hours, low pay, shitty men,
whores for coworkers
and assholes for customers.
if you sit at the counter
you will be hit with expletives;
it is a social contract.
money, lovers, dirty dishes
and wet, gnarled hands.
their teeth are lost
in the slow cycle of decay.
they smell of addiction
and sour childhoods, bad memories
of daddy and every man
that has come after
and they take out this aggression
on hash browns, sausage patties
and egg shells.
the names of children tattooed
on their wrists and necks.
stretch marks and mean faces.
the endless hiss of oil
and the rising of steam
accompany the clang and clatter
of various instruments,
the scraping of utensilary madness.
arguments are had, alliances forged
and broken in the span of cigarette breaks.
they count down the hours
with a harsh fatigue,
add up the dollars
and perform simple arithmetic
to determine the level
of that day’s misery.
hair pulled and pinned,
lightly dusted with grease.
skin taut and wrinkled nerves
and their eyes hold fire.
ain nobody got no hours,
pull two bacon, a weird language
in the back and forth economics
of breakfast with strangers.
they scratch their arms with long nails
and make crude references.
i suck down my food and exit.
the world is not so bad.

-S.C. Martinez