The Restaurant

The door swings open and close
people revolve around one another
the scent of juicy burgers, hand-cut fries
and strange assortment of diner specialties
malteds, Black Forest Cake and pickles
sashay and twirl filling the space
the menu's a book
bible for the epicurious
stacked like pancakes, pages curve and shine
curve and shine
covered in sheets of transparent plastic
to avoid the fate of the table cloths
that cringe at the scent
of freshly roasted coffee
scarred, marked
with rings of brown designs
left with traces of breakfast #5
pink stains freckle the fabric
like the sun touching a susceptible redhead
holes poked by over enthusiastic toothpicks
unknown patterns begin to form
from buttery mash potatoes that missed their mark
abstract artwork revealed
as people stare into the stains
each meal an imprinted memory
greasy yellow hoops
contain late nights of stumbling and giggling friends
ensconced in favorite corner red booths
surrounded by silver bars that cradle like a poster bed
omelets secrete swiss cheese
trying to escape yellow folds
first dates drink milkshakes
nervously spilling frothy cream
another spot
until dots meet and disperse
spreading across patchwork material
a rich tapestry of existence
moments locked in time
that dance and hum to the beat
of a small mini jukebox
Madonna on sale for 50 cents
Borderline wafting through the slow moving fan blades
hum and swoosh
whiz and turn
quietening the pain of stains
suffered by once white fibers
reduced to a faded melody by bizarre shapes and colors
material covers every dining room table
all elements changed, touched
the dirty, sweet, messy, beautiful, strange
fabric of life