A greasy spoon café with a broken sign and

Grimy windowpanes. Some nondescript alley,

A tributary of the boulevards that the happier

Drive their monstrous scarlet automobiles over.

Its poorer relation is home to a similar humanity

: Potbellied drunkards, rail thin chain-smoking bleached

Females. She has violet eyes with those stupid dilated

Pupils, grace a the bald light bulb,

That give her Styrofoam-caffeine carrying, stained apron

Form a vacant expression. But just gaze into those amethyst

Irises and you see an inferno. It could shock you off the

Peeling, fake leather seats. If the train crashes tonight and

Makes the news at some godforsaken hour, no one would claim

Her marred hourglass figure amongst the other corpses. Apart from

Me, macabre me because we read those dog-eared horror fictions

Knowing reality is colder, and shared day-old cappuccinos over secret

Smiles and askew glances.

I'll miss you, Veronique.