Breakfast Served 24 Hours

	The sign in the window promises
	        “Breakfast Served 24 Hours”

12:30 am:
	Just got off the job and changed, second shift at the plant.  
		It's for younger guys, but a man's gotta work.
			On days off I get to see the kids when they're not asleep.
Two eggs over easy.  And decaf, please.  
		Don't want to stay awake when I get home and hit the sack.

Half past one:
Just a quick cuppa coffee and a doughnut.
		Supposed to be walking the beat.
			But it's cold.  Take a break now.
	At two the bars close and the street
		won't be so quiet.  Maybe a desk job
			wouldn't be so bad after all.
Want to hit the loading dock
		as soon as it opens.  Just a couple more hours
			on the road, they unload me, then real sleep in the motel.
Bacon and eggs with home fries, juice and coffee..
		The waitress will keep the cup full.

Quarter to seven:
	It’s still dark.  But I might as well get started
		on the paperwork.  Look busy,
			so no one can tell me all about their date last night,
				or all about their kids.
		This sure beats fixing my own breakfast at the apartment.
		She got the waffle iron.

10 o’clock:
	It's late.  I didn't get much done this morning.
		No real reason to spend money on breakfast.  
	But it's nice to sit and just talk with someone, face to face,
		not on the phone or on the net.  Me and Cathy - just girl talk.
	I've been working at home since the baby got out of diapers.
		Cathy's been working at home since her company downsized.
	I can't sell her my computer graphics,
		and there's nothing I can buy from her.
			Guess that's what they call 'networking'.
Orange juice and pancakes for me.  
		And separate checks, please.  
	Sometimes you need a fresh start.	
		Oh yeah.  You bet.
And two eggs.  Scrambled.
	What was that place we went to
		after Chief's closed?
			and what was her last name?
	Oh, my head.

Almost six:
		Gotta do a sound check..
A cup of coffee and a piece of toast for me.
		Something in my stomach,
			in case some customer wants
				to buy the guitarist a drink. 
Sunny side up for my buddy. 
		He’s got a day job.
			But whenever I’ve got a gig,
				he'll come and listen, 'til closing.
		Then we go home.

Nine p.m.:
	Left the house after he went to the bar,
			A cheerful neon welcome, checkered tablecloths, 
and no "mixed drinks."
An omelet. And another decaf, please.
			I’ve got a lot to think through.
	Now I’m watching the patterns 
		that the milk makes in the coffee,
			swirling around, not yet dissolved.

We don't ask questions.  Of course,
	if you want to talk, hon, 
		we'll listen.
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