The In-Between Time

Silence hangs in the air like a curtain

while the bartender drives a blade

through the flesh of lemons and limes.

The dishwasher ushers silver through the Hobart on flat racks

after the last of the lunch plates,

and servers gossip through it all,

perfecting their sections for inspection

while the chef slumps in the office chair

upstairs from the kitchen,

texting his girlfriend about the line cook

who didn’t show for his shift,

explaining and complaining that he’ll be home late,

after the moon shrinks into the star-strewn ceiling of clouds and sky,

no, don’t wait up.

Ghosts of dinners past linger on the menus waiting for the hostess

to wipe them down.

Dry erase markers abbreviate the specials

beside the 86 list, longer than earlier in the day

while the hostess leans into the wait station,

purring into the phone with a sex kitten voice,

confirming reservations, dropping the pretense between calls

to trade insults with the sous chef

while the clock tiptoes toward five

and linen napkins buff water and wine glasses

until they sparkle in the dim dining room

above the freshly mopped floor, drying in patches

until the darkness evaporates to a uniform shade of shadow.

Eventually, the key enters the lock and twists,

ending the in-between time again.