Formica tables,

Formica tables,

The smell of grease and bacon

The tear in the eye of the painted lady

And the leer that is pasted on the face

Of an old drunk,

Still nursing his sorrow

From the night before,

When his suit was cleaner

The tie had fewer stains.

But like everybody

In this old greasy spoon,

He had a story and I tire of its retelling.

I close my eyes, pretending to sleep

But the drone is insistent,

And as he leaned forward

Sour breath scoured my face

And I was roused.

He barely noticed the difference

Caught up in an argument with himself

About his wife.

His suitcase stood on the doorstep

When he woke up from his last bender,

She had taken his wallet

Ran his cards through the blender,

That is when I heard him ask me for a loan.

The waiter let out a groan

And called him out.

He already owed money for a full English,

And two sweet mugs of tea.

The old soak winked and got to his feet,

Laughed, and said…call me Tommy Lee…

He had a car, parked

Just outside in the street

And must be on his way.

He had an acquaintance he must meet

Who would sort him out,

Set him up, with handcuffs and a gun,

Take them home and have some fun.

That is when I hit him and he went down,

He was less a killer,

A little more than a clown.

The waiter and the painted lady

Helped him back onto his feet,

Emptied his pockets

Then pushed him out of the café,

And into the street.

What strange people you get to meet,

When you can’t stay in bed,

And walk through

The heart of the city instead.

Did that just happen

Or was it a day dream?

But there wasn’t a peep from anyone else.

And the night time traffic whispered

On its way.

At the start of another

Very ordinary day.