The Closed Sign: a poem

In that sleepy diner round the corner
Their blank stares skirt around.
Catch a tear
You stayed up late at night
Now you need to get out of here.
The spinning wheels,
The scratches on the grooves
The quiet storm thrashes slowly
The waves that slide up to shore –
Licking foams that dress up the sand,
Coffee stains that dry like ink.
Stormclouds roll heavily over like fog,
As the light of the sun break through the grey.
When all the lonely souls left,
There were only coffee stains on the table,
Only stains on the table.
But the boy in the blue-grey t-shirt still sat there,
Nursing his cup,
Singing his song,
Asking for another one.
Sorry, we’re closed for the night.
And the warm presence left cold.
But he’ll be back tomorrow.
The storm will die by then,
It’ll die by then.

~ Joyce