Short Order

The diner light makes everything look like a bruise.

I sit at the counter and watch the cook

work the middle of the night shift alone.

He cracks four eggs with his right hand,

the shells hitting the plastic bin like hail.

A string of yellow yolk stains the deep crease

of his palm, right over an old grease burn.

He doesn't wash it. He just wipes his hand

on an apron stiff with salt and old steam,

then flips the hash browns without looking up.