Suzy knew I liked rye toast,
buttered in the kitchen.
She knew the over easy,
hashbrowns and bacon, chewy.
She knew, maybe smelled bad direction
on my breath, bus fumes on my sleeves,
lake sludge in my shoes.
Maybe I wasn’t a great tip
but just another slapped sap in a booth,
unsure of anything but a late night breakfast.
Traffic was slim on those tar amber nights,
the only noise: trains, fryers, hails,
garbled scrapes on empty plates.
Maybe she was bored,
tired of three quarter dregs.
Maybe the coffee was old,
held since eight — but it’s two now.
I don’t know. Suzy smiled,
the toast was warm,
butter soaked deep,
Suzy always laughed,
and called me “Hon”.