The smell of stale coffee and
failed expectations fills the air.

The joint sits by the side of a road
far less busy than it used to be.
The neon lights outside give way
to fluorescent and burn any eyes
with the audacity to be open.

Some are.
The eyes of the stakeout.
Hiding behind dark glasses and
a furrowed brow, they watch.

Then, movement. A weapon.
A muzzle flash. Two more. A thud.
Another order of ham and eggs
spiked on the spindle of life.

The road will be a little busier tonight,
but the diner is empty.

—Don