Off the Clock

The clock on the wall of the diner is wrong,

or the sun is just lying about where it stands.

I’ve been sitting here entirely too long

with a menu and grease on the back of my hands.

There is no one to tell me to get up and go,

no manager checking the time on the floor.

The traffic outside is beginning to flow

like a river that doesn't remember the shore.

My coffee is cold and the cream forms a ring,

a pale, crusty circle inside of the white.

I’m holding onto this quiet, strange thing

before I head back out and into the light.