the five and ten

the five and ten
is no longer the five
and ten.
there is no counter
where you can rest
your skinny elbows
on and read comics
while sipping on a
cherry coke and nibbling
at a butter fried
grilled cheese sandwich.
the woman in pink,
with her hair up
in a stiff curl of hat
pays you no mind, she's
elsewhere
in her photoplay magazine,
wiping the counter,
humming a song
she heard on the radio.
you miss the five and ten.
the long summer rains,
hours of lingering,
spinning on and off
the stool,
imagining a different life,
along with the waitress,
just you two.