My footsteps are
	hollow echoes
	off building walls.
				Why bother going home?
				There’s nobody there.
	Whistling at
	shadows, wanting
	conversation.
				What’s the point in sleeping?
				I’ll only wake up.
	Once home, I plan
	for tomorrow’s
	workday.  Again.
				What am I working for?
				Why not just give up?

	Since I swore
	I would only smoke
                  while writing,
	I have become,
	shockingly,
             particularly prolific.

	
	Since blowing rings in the air
	doesn’t make any real flair,
	writing only when I smoke
	has become my private joke.


	I scribble
	odd rhymes and phrases,
				annoyingly aware
	of my wheezing,
	through a cloud of
				sickening smoke.

	Burgers to the left of me
	French fries to my right.
	I’m never leaving
	I’ll be trapped here till midnight.
	Now there’s and order
	for pie a la mode.
	I’d love to tell the guy
	just where is pie can go.
	Is it morning or is it nighttime?
	I can never tell
	if this is just my cruddy life
	or a greasy part of Hell.

	They come from all directions
	and demand to get a seat,
	expecting you to ell them
	just what they want to eat.
	"That’s too cold.  That’s too hot."
	They fume and they vent.
	Then they act so generous
	by tipping seven cents.
	This life requires patience
	which is mighty short of late.
	We have to growl at our friends
	just to smile at those we hate.

	We want to wallow in our depression,
	maybe curl up and die.
	Perhaps laugh hysterically.
	or just break down and cry.
	We try to pretend we’re happy
	and that we’re having fun.
	Otherwise we’d just snap
	and come in waving guns.
	We put up with insanity
	to make ends meet, I guess.
	It has to be the money.
	Who can live on stress?

	So that’s the way life is
	in the restaurant game.
	There are those who hate it,
	the rest are just insane.
	The cooks are going crazy,
	the waitstaff have aching toes.
	It’s all part of the job;
	it’s just the way it goes.
	Pouring coffee or slinging hash,
	it happens every day.
	The anguish and the heartbreak
	of a working man’s cafe.

	As I look upon you
	from the light of the Frigidare,
	my mind is free of worry,
	from doubt, and from care.
	your beauty is overwhelming,
	so I can hardly think
	as I lift you, lovingly,
	and set you beside the sink.
	Out comes bread and mayonnaise
	but, still, I’ll never rest
	until I’ve sunk my shiny knife
	into your tender breast.
	Some lettuce and tomato,
	dab of mustard, and it’s done.
	Of all the days of the year
	this might be my favorite one.
	Today it is Friday.
	Thanksgiving was last night.
	I lift the sandwich to my lips
	and gladly take a bite.

	Love among the cannibals
	can be a dangerous thing,
	when the blood begins to boil
	and the hormones start to sing.

	The hugging and the kissing
	may lead to mastication
	which can put a damper
	on things like procreation.

	I woke up too early,
	the cat biting my nose.
	I got myself dressed
	ignoring the fur on my clothes.
	Endured feline dancing
	while cooking my eggs
	to keep the vile beast
	from climbing my legs.
	He yowled for me to feed him.
	Then he howled some more.
	He was still meowing
	as I ran for the door.
	On the long way to work
	I got a sympathetic glance
	from a man on the bus
	who looked at my pants.
	The job wasn’t better
	once I got there.
	My boss snuffled and sneezed
	"I’m allergic to cat hair."
	I returned to my home
	thinking of some snack,
	so I wasn’t ready
	when the monster attacked.
	I fended him off
	with all of my might.
	He clawed, I kicked
	ending the fight.
	To keep him busy,
	I gave him his mouse.
	He wasn’t interested.
	He’d tore up my house.
	As I cleaned up I thought
	that such fuzzy young kittens
	would be just dandy,
	if made into mittens.
	Uncaring and not sorry,
	he opened his jaws,
	yawned a big yawn
	and cleaned up his paws.
	While sitting for supper
	I tried calmly to eat
	while barely keeping him
	from chewing my feet.
	While reading in bed
	he jumped to my chest.
	Nuzzling and purring,
	he curled up to rest.
	He might be unbearable
	but beside all that,
	I don’t know what I’d do
	without my darn cat.

	I have an urge to write
	but nothing’s in my head.
	One of my Muses left,
	the other two are dead.

	The first, golden Megan
	was just an accident.
	She startled me one day
	and down the stairs she went.

	My darling Julia,
	seeing the games I play,
	crying while I explained,
	packed up and went away.

	And Rosa, whom I loved
	and wanted most to keep,
	to stop her from leaving
	I choked her in her sleep.

	Now my days are dreary,
	my night, quiet and plain,
	but I’ll find someone new
	and learn to love again.

        If Milton were alive today
        Paradise lost
        would be just that.

        No editor alive today,
        overworked, underpaid,
        could ever read such a stack

        of cantos and stanzas and lines.
        Page after page
        of allusionary verse.

        So much more than thirty two lines,
        however fantastic,
        would really make his head hurt.

Back to my writing page.