On Saturday night after the school
dance
when all the girls have gone home
with the boys who drive cars,
I walk downtown
to hang out at the all-night diner.
The place is empty,
except for the cook
asleep next to the Roll-A-Grill
and a lone waitress
who leans against the
counter
blowing curls of smoke
that cling to the glass pie case.
I drop my last nickel
into the jukebox
and ask her to dance.
Sure kid, she laughs,
as she punches out her cigarette
in a leftover mound of mashed potatoes.
We step into the aisle,
her hand on my shoulder,
my eyes even with her pink name tag.
Outside, across the Blackstone River,
the sodium-vapor lamps
in the empty high school parking lot
give off a muddy yellow glow
but here, in the White Tower Grill,
me and Rita turn slowly
between the vinyl stools
and Formica booths,
we move under the flash of red neon,
Open All Night,
Best Food In Town.
Richard Rocco