Half of this wasn't me (it was Tom Waits)

nighthawks at the diner
of Emma's 49er, there's a rendezvous
of strangers around the coffee urn tonight
all the gypsy hacks, the insomniacs
now the paper's been read
now the waitress said

eggs and sausage and a side of toast
coffee and a roll, hash browns over easy
chile in a bowl with burgers and fries
what kind of pie?





A bottle of nail polish remover next to
an ashtray, four butts smoked down to the filter behind
a crumpled brown styrofoam cup, perforated by plastic spoon.
This whole city is dying of second-hand smoke,
and the rest of us are just dying.