Side Order of Confusion

Some walk the banks of rivers and shore,
Back alleys and deserted parks,
Seeking,
Or,
Escaping.

Such are the questions of eyes pondering
The night people of one’s fantasies,
Those darker entities,
Wiser perhaps than some,
Unwilling to enfold into reality.

Alone,
Stars and moonless nights
Engulf everyday tolerance,
Embellishing fear and question
With hunger for the un-illuminated
Yet to come.

The open-all-night neon engulfs.

The lost sidle up to decision’s banquet table.

Cold plates on the left.

Hot on the right.

All white.
All right.

The chef of dreams hovers:
“Bet you remember 25 cent beer,
Pearl onions,
Pickles,
And the God-awful olives.

Well, he says,

This ain’t a White Horse Bar,
So enjoy.
You earned it,
Even though
You acknowledge survival
As an unearned trophy.”

That’s how it might go.
Those who traverse Stygian gloom,
Happening upon their midnight-sun smorgasbord diner,
Where alter ego finally stops,
Smells the coffee
And prepares to admit,
“Hold that side order of resentment.
Having almost everything does just fine.
Especially when one gets so much comfort by just being.”

Damn, why won’t words come to my pen on this fuckin' napkin?”