red booths and leather

the moon howls at a tormented soul, wretched with fear and perplexion.
we sit here in red booths with squeaky leather at a diner, for drinks, or dinner.
the crevice that hides in between my knee and thigh is sweating beads that paste themselves alongside whatever forgotten things get stuck under a benched seat.
i don't want to look.
i'm in an old dirty movie.
the lights flicker to a monotone beat that somehow makes me think of a morgue,
but no, i'm in a diner with red leather seats.
while a juke box spits hypnotic melodies from the forties i realize this is not my generation and i feel uneasy.
people are looking, staring blankly into the past.
it's not ours. it's depressing.
a shadow has been cast over the eyes of our imagination creating the silhouette of floating promises decomposing.
it's hard to see now, but if you squint hard enough, the thought of other people being happy can be squeezed out of the corner of your eye.
a teardrop.
i'm consumed by the memories,
they all have a story to share.
it's this place, i can tell it sucks them right out of people and keeps them lingering, almost floating in the air.
at least i have Marlene.
the bartender stares at me quietly from the bar.
we both see in black and white.
he bats his eyelashes. wink.
i blink a few times before i return to my stale reality.
at least i have Marlene.
my mind wanders. let's ditch this place, this time, this man.
let's leave this dive and fly far away.
let's go someplace sacred.
someplace that doesn't have red booths and squeaky leather.