nothing stays the same

It was
a truck stop.
nestled between
Chinese food
and nails.
a sheet of grease on the window.
a place
where the car salesmen
would go
and gather
around eggs
and sausage, hard
toast.
count their commissions,
the change
in their pockets.
the seniors
would wander in from their
rest homes,
escaped from
their keepers,
cursing
the heavy door,
the raise
in prices.
where's moe, they'd say.
where the hell
is moe,
then settle into
a booth,
grumbling about
why nothing
stays the same.