Over a cup of black coffee and
a half eaten piece of blueberry pie,
tears run down her face.
She tries to look him in the eye,
but he won't look at her.
She sits,
staring at the cracked plastic table.
He throws a dollar bill on a dirty plate,
gets up and walks away,

past a girl cradling a baby.
Her hair is disheveled, and
sour milk spots discolor her sweatshirt.
She asks the waitress for some water,
tries to sit down
without disturbing the infant.
But he wakes up and shrieks,

and a gray haired and thin man,
sitting at the counter,
turns and looks at the screaming child.
He sighs,
goes back to pushing cold scrambled eggs
around a stained porcelain plate.
The waitress stops in front of him,
but he doesn't look up

as she takes a bowl,
covered with buttered toast crumbs and
a discarded, crumpled napkin,
sets it in a worn plastic tub
on a pile of dirty dishes.
While she wipes the counter
with a dirty rag,
the bell on the door rings.
A man and woman settle in
a booth in the corner.
"Coffee and pie," he says.