Dust to Dust
Anna Maria Little
I sit in a roadside cafe,
a real comfort food joint
with grease, chatter, fluorescent lights
the heat turned down too low,
the juke turned up too high
a round waitress wipes her chapped,
red hands on her apron
her mouth is a long, downturned smear,
the wrong shade of plum
she claps a coffee cup in front of me,
why can’t you smoke inside, anymore?
it is too late for a nice girl like me
to be out and about:
the hungry stares coming from slits carved
between beards and pulled-down baseballs caps
indicate this
the jukebox is playing Piano Man
the coffee tastes like cigarette ash
I taste like cigarette ash
and I look like cigarette ash
the men staring at me do too
the whole world
is cigarette ash
and I don’t remember
where I parked
the car
Anna Maria Little is an English major, studying for her degree in Nowhere, Georgia. Born and raised in rural Appalachia by Irish-Italian immigrants, she has only recently moved on to fulfill her dreams of being a
career bartender.