Hell is a table by the window,
where the AC’s broke and the sun
bleeds syrup on orange-oiled wood.

He orders Uncle Herschel’s Favorite Breakfast.
Who eats a hamburg steak before 10:30,
medium eggs like jelly moons,
torched bacon brittle as old bones.

She eats grits—six steaming spoonfuls.
Thinks, stay.

Spring comes when Persephone slips out back
to smoke in the cramped employee bathroom,
by the dumpsters. She whispers dandelions
through asphalt. Just one drag—
Til Hades himself hollers from the kitchen door,
“Hon! Table seven needs some pomegranate tea.”
She grinds the blossom under her non-slip sole.

So what if the sky’s aching blue?
For months, the coffee’s kept fresh.
The music–not dryad, but flesh
against hot grease. Her & her lover.

Her mama searches every interstate exit
as the old men in checkered plaid and A-shirts
stare at cold coffee and weep
for the waitress. She stalks paper menu,
wet with maple and the steam
of something boiling.

On months the ice cubes stay whole,
Persephone calls from the pay phone
outside. Demeter comes in her van.
They leave with next shift on napkin,
six biscuits cradled in warm wax paper—
like a stolen kiss.