The Blue Diner

Chris Murdoch

It’s a sweet song, played by the lonely string, singing its heart out to a room of nobodies. Dancing over the silence in a way most without effort, throwing its sound at the paint on the walls, with the subtle hand of E-flat barely felt at the skin. A song for quiet minds in a loud world, a melody of roses in a grey and concrete meadow, stretched from one end to another, like a line from some poem never written. In between pages of whatever you call yourself.

The rude and all-too-true outlook of lampshade eyes, just below the smoke of my mood. As we’re laying down into chairs that raise arms with no pulse. A wide room, crowded by worthless thoughts tumbling down your jazz-rifled staircase. This or your or my temples that shiver like the blurred crash of a brass symbol after dark. All just an empty show, off amidst this late-night pause to take a breather that robbed me empty-handed of shuteye. Begging on the notes to stay for just one more drink.

And not a single one of us is in our best clothes

For there are holes in the moon,

and bones in the basement,

(so don't forget what I told ya’)