The Regulars

A dry mouth blowjob
and cold pizza slice
both worth about
twenty-five bucks—
common breakfast
at my workplace.

Above the bar,
on monitor three
I see the butt end
of this shift’s gags
kneeling in fry grease
by the oil container

They talk like they hate her—
That’s why I watch,
though it’s not what I see.
They come, one after the next.
None finish. A posturing
play on pride and cruelty.

Then, they come and greet me.
“Mornin’, Joey!”
The biofilm is still on their dicks
as I watch the sick woman stagger
across the little TV.

“Gimme a combo, please.”
Heated for fifty-five seconds,
that’s the way they all like it.
After the microwave dings,
they all take their seats.

These regulars,
these late-in-life men,
twirl dull wedding bands
along their neon fingers,
while improvising anecdotes
with crooked smiles, old jokes.

Their wet beer belches
scented of salami,
jocular assurance,
and something else,
spit and whisper past
long, pus-colored teeth,

Feels just like home,
Feels just like home!