late night, but not too late,
city rests in slumber;
you come while she waits
inside a booth for three.
on the left, light brown eyes,
on the right, soft brown hair,
wax paper, french fries,
milkshake reduced to dregs.
walls covered with players
cranking quirky old tunes;
soon someone new enters,
conversation changes.
we talk about football
she is ready to leave
lose sight of the clock's crawl
before you drive her home.
and we are still talking
and my jeans are too tight
and her foot is tapping
but must we go home now?
stay a little longer,
doze off to the jukebox,
buy another burger,
wait for someone special.
✏︎
YOU ARE READING
singular thoughts
Poetryin which she takes you on a journey through the many different trails of her mind. poetry / reflections / art ✏︎ poetry #492 copyright © 2017 by clato_maroondiamonds. all rights reserved. lowercase intended.
