In the City Where Bukowski Died
There is this diner just south of here that serves this tower of pancakes covered with fresh fruit and shit; whipped cream. Same diner has home made biscuits n gravy.
Chicken fried steak.
Line out the door. Fisherman. Dock workers. Men with real faces. Jackets come off and get hung on a rack that gets fat with them. Waitresses are welcoming and proud like they own the shit. I hate them for this. I wanna be a proud waitress. I wanna smile and serve hungry men with hard hands. I wanna bring them hot plates and ask them if they need anything else. My heartbeat will still while waiting for the answer I want to hear. Eventually, I’ll hear it. It will never be enough, even with a 20% tip.
Let’s go out back, boys, got some fresh hot muffins for ya.
Keep ‘em comin’. Keep ‘em fuckin’ comin’.
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