Boxed in a Boxcar Diner

With bloodshot eyes and ruffled hair I sat
Waiting for my buttered breakfast toast,

Plummeting my daily de-caf dose
With something for my ulcer

Looking around
With my every morning frown
For anything renewed.

It wasn’t a thing but a she,
Probing, piercing my eyes with her blue
And a blondeful of hairhooks,

Perched on her tea toting mother’s lap,
Sipping whole milk, staring me back,

And damn, I thought I heard her say
“Hey! What the hell's the matter with you?”