Picture this place reeking of sawdust
and over the counter hunks of dewy meat
and diet coke in big sweaty red cups
and aprons laced with grease fingerprints

And picture this girl, taking photos
her ponytail askew and hair light and
gently brushing across her ears and
the tickle of breath and the little stain

by her left breast. It doesn't matter
when she says her name is Claudia,
from Ohio, because this name, this
word for the moment is lost between the two.

And it doesn't matter when her keds
slip across the stardust and it
doesn't matter when she touches
a shoulder in passing to get a better view.

Turning and the soul is brought like
fireworks to light and she is the one
and the sawdust shimmers about her feet
and she takes a step towards the end of time

And hearts slam to a halt across the room
and jealous wives stammer and accept all
in that moment and the words are still lost,
finding their way from mouth to ear,

trapped in the damp heat of this place,
coated ribs and chicken sandwiches,
dreaming turgid dreams tonight and the stomach
squeezes against the belt and she is here,

And no one is prepared to answer her so
she says again: "Is this seat taken?", swinging
her camera lightly over her back and
eyes trapped between desert sands and skin.

Muttering retreats and selfish glances and
everywhere the fingers drum on empty cups
and the hearts no longer pump their blood
and everywhere the girls have left their seats

and arrows flinging between lines of darkness
and cars crashing through the night and
magic whips the sawdust across the floor,
dusting empty plates and vacant chairs.