Lunch in c-minor

"Turkey salad on rye..." she scratched it down on yellow paper
Her green eyes caught mine and for a second I didn't hear
anything. or God until "What'd ya like ta drink?"
the pause popped into a cacophony of smiles
a single finger ran slowly from her elbow to her wrist
"Look here! What's the point of play-acting, trying to throw dust in each other's eyes?"
her laugh burst like a burp from the bottom of her abdomen
"Ah'm a waitress, not a moe-ron...Ah know Sartre. Ah'll get ya some coffee."
with a the practiced chink of ceramic on stained gray formica
"we're all tarred with the same brush," her voice sounded spring
as the smell of coffee wafting from the blue mug
a black pit in a godless blue sky, caffeine nirvana
I couldn't see heaven from this shit-hole diner, so
ogling her ass as she walked back to get the sandwich
Yes, we are all criminals, we're in hell
and sartre was right
there are no mistakes in hell -- and I'll not be damned for nothing.
Her breasts boomed across my lustful mind
and the sing-song of her perfume
her empty life -- set my lunch to music
I never asked her name, so instead
I call her Rex.