Glenn Lyvers Poetry Site

She was filling the salt shakers.
Doing the L~o~N~g~P~o~U~r
for the eyes
of a child looking on—gazing really.

And she wondered how she got there,
in that shitty diner, hiding from
the world--serving shitty
plates of greasy meat covered
by brown gravy slopped from the pan
by the dishwater.

She stopped and stood there
beside the stale doughnut rack.
Her eyes glazed over—while
smelly truckers rested
their tired eyes on her sagging tits.

One by one they got up
and went for their rigs.
She heard the chorus
of air breaks releasing
their soulful sighs
before the rigs pulled out
and disappeared.

She stared blankly
out the foggy plexiglas window
while the tiny silver bell
on the door chimed off key
and she muttered,
“That’s the story of my life.”