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68 all night diner at three am even the prostitutes have left two and three dollar tips their grotesque angel faces disappearing in the night the bus-boys and the cook are sleeping in the back side work all done salt pepper and sugars filled ice melts in the bins i’m the only one left out front i sit in my soiled uniform my apron weighted down with change no one will be coming in till 5 or 6 i fight the urge to lie down in a booth and sleep and sit instead and read the menu memorizing specials and the prices i fix myself a cup of coffee and some orange juice it is so still my eyes play tricks the toaster on the salad station reflects images spoons stretch out of shape on the tables the front door grows tall there are no people going by outside 69 my fingers and my arms go numb i get up and wipe the place down for the hundredth time i sit out the morning counting tips ...

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