if you walk past the diner just after seven o’clock

once dusk has bruised the pink peach flesh of the day

and the taxi lights scream yellow murders outside the window

you can see the waitress, now a cleaner, in her lime green

smock, whirling and pirouetting through the air with

her mop, a noble gas, a neon sign, dancing, slipping and

scything through the empty spaces, fly free sweet jane doe