The talk was desultory and trite
In that squalid eatery.
The oil- splattered wall paper hung down in greasy strips
As smoke billowed forth from purple lips.
On a three legged chair the owner snored
People hunched over tables absolutely bored.
Punching numbers on cellphones,
deleting memories stored.
An ancient clock with broken hands lazily ticked
For lack of anything better to do,
a man with tangled hair, his fingers licked.
Others wrangled over some ideas new fangled
In a corner a golden haired boy his sobs strangled.
Filled with unease, looking at a blob of grease
Assaulted by memories.
“Waiter”, Someone shouted.
He shook away those memories of a home
Where they called him, Raja [King] ; here he was Waiter
And yes for the snorer , a third –rater.
Ah, he was missing his small, warm cottage,
In the village, yet again.
Resolutely he got up, ignoring the pain
Closing his ears to the chugging of the train.
He was a waiter, he could wait
For that train which would eventually take him home
Where he would be Raja once again.
Home, sweet, home, ah!