I'll walk into a lousy diner one day.
drink a lousy cup of coffee.
the counter, lousy with grit
from somebody's toast
and a cigarette
that couldn't
or wouldn't
reach the ashtray.

the waitress will take my order
while threading
her lousy hair.
but I'll get something
completely different
because she has
a lousy memory.

the food will arrive late because
she argues with the cook
who is
a cantankerous
louse.

and I'll whisper
to myself
"what lousy service."

but she'll hear me somehow
and refill
my coffee only half
way.
and she'll bring me
a nearly empty ketchup bottle
when I ask
for condiments.

I'll try to start a conversation
with her
but she'll be lousy at that, too.
answering every statement
or question
with "hmph" or "uh huh."

all the while, a crusty
little AM radio
plays the lousiest country
music I've ever
heard.
spitting
every beer-stained chorus
through the carpet
of cobwebs
draped over the speaker.

I'll be ready for the check, but
that waitress
spends all her time
in the corner
with some fat biker.
a hairy ogre
in a Harley tank top
with a handlebar moustache
and lousy teeth.
he smiles and
all I see is brown and black.
I'll never know which
is the color of his teeth.
maybe both.

I'll yell "Miss?" a few times before
she finally gets up saying
"hold your lousy horses."
I'll shuffle some bills
out of my wallet
as she tries
to say
"have a nice day."
but it comes out
as a growl from the left
corner
of her mouth.
an expression that stabs
her in the cheek.

she struts back to the biker
who by this time
must have a divot
in his lap
the size of her ass.
and I'll walk out the door
quickly
thinking
"gee...
I didn't even
leave her
a lousy tip."