Janey’s boyfriend steers his goatee
and Metallica T-shirt down Main,
wishing he had leathers and a Harley.
From two to four, the empty ovens
bake only air, and Janey has to breathe.
Her mother’s echo recommends otherwise:
a simple change of shift, perhaps. Janey
simply shifts from foot to foot,
does not note the smallest change
from one sad jukebox world to the next.
Janey counts the empty booths again,
gathers herself near the window
considers the bars.