The Lazy D
Each weekday morning
I ride
a counter stool
at the Lazy D café.
Regular as sunrise
I order strong coffee
two eggs over easy
bacon
crisper than
a waitress’s starched
whites.
Becky Sue
pours the coffee,
her left eye
like a stampede’s aftermath
the black and blue
still fresh.
My questioning glance
prompts the whispered
assurance,
“It’s alright, don’t worry.
Sam only did it
because he loves me.”
Before I can reply
she is taking other orders,
the culprit changed
to an errant baseball.
Becky Sue lingers
at the counter’s far end,
my coffee growing cold.
Beyond the café
stretches unbroken desert.
A female jackrabbit
is teaching her offspring
that red-tailed hawks
do not swoop down
out of love,
and kangaroo rats
know better
than to share a lair
with rattlesnakes.