The Regulars

We have the same knuckles,


flick of the wrist

as we tip edges of

coffee mugs to our

lips in diner windows.

His headphones whisper Otis Redding,

quiet love songs,

mine shout The Doors until I forget the name of this and other places;

these distractions seem unending 

they keep us daily

in red plastic booths, cups kept full 

and warm,

lipstick pressed on the rim of mine.