Denny's - 8:30 a.m.

Not saying Denny's is a prison
but it's about all I can afford
outside my kitchen cabinets.
And it's not bad. The waitress
doesn't seem sad, a low voltage
energy powers her greeting,
writing on the order pad,
her twirl and pace back
to lift a dirty plate and place
my order up on the drum.
Breakfast is always good,
and a broken yolk still talks
of wealth and overwhelming
life. No one eats much better,
at least not in the morning.
I try to hold up my end:
An old man who's not sad.
I remember those guys,
and now I know what
they were doing.
The truth is, we weren't
sad. We were happy,
and hopeful, and
saying goodbye.

And on a midnight next year,
when I've crossed over, come
drink your best Irish whiskey,
all my worst old friends, and
piss free on my pricey grave.