Love In A Diner

In a diner “Systematically” has no boundaries but I can only fill up 14

little-syrup-bottles with this measly amount of sugary-sweetness! We need more syrup!

My boss went home, but he wrote a note in case this happened. It says:

If you run out of syrup

please examine the following:

The window-rabbit store-display.

The pancake reflected in the mirror indefinitely.

The inside of a home-fried-potato.

All things in order and perfectly arranged

like the stars where Copernicus found the schematics

to the universe.

Love, Carl

True love is a clean microwave for Carl, but this thing is beyond any galaxy of grime.

It has caked on loops of estranged pancakey-syrup-spray, and speckled in its stars along the outer-rim is a pizza-chip-casserole like some failed experiment to prove the big-bang theory.

I took all the precautions too, but Aunt Jemima must have sludged her way in before closing

for a contest with some Marshmallow-Peeps and Stove-Top-Gravy

because, since then the Palmolive-Hand-Soap has been applied in VEIN!

I mean I've tried: hand-soap, lip-balm, club-soda, tooth-paste and bleach, systematically, in order,

but the hotbox is still smelling.

If only my astrologer boss would come back; I'd ask for his “schematics to the universe.”