.32) Short Order Diner Poem by Max Reif

Behind the counter, everything seems like a movie
as the gracious, smiling cashier takes my order.
The cooks are busy. I see only their backs.
Scraping and frying sounds rise from the grill,
mingling with the gurgle of voices and pop music.
Under a painted menu sign a whole wall long,
packages of hamburger buns and piles of plates
sit on shelves, waiting to be used.
All the ritualized activity back there
is only to serve me, out here in my booth.
Leisurely sipping my coffee, I feel secure.