Going Home (an old crappy poem)

I turn into the center
of town. The Cambodian
children aren’t playing in the street
by the pawn shop; autumn has arrived.
I approach Anne’s and flick my cigarette.
Exhaust masked in dollar
store air freshener rushes in.
Jon is already waiting for me.
We exchange pleasantries
and walk into the restaurant.
We get a booth and discuss the past.
We both order the pastrami.
A pang hits my stomach
like when I find myself
in a Dunkin’ Donuts at 7 AM,
half insane and killing time before work.
We are served and devour our food.
My nose is slick from the stench of grease
and begging to be dried.
The waitress brings us our check.
I wipe the sweat from my temples
and place my money on the table.
Jon takes his share, passing me a bag
with a sleight of hand.
We rise and leave.