Nighthawks

They're the usual cast, so to speak.
They sit, with only the electric hum
of the late night diner lights to accompany them –
too white, too bright, like the tattered string
of pearls round her neck. Cheap, he thinks.
The moon sinks and surfaces between the city spires,
scraping the sky, inconstant as a lover.
He drains the last dregs, takes a drag
on his cigarette. Behind the glass,
she shifts uncomfortably in her seat,
hopes he doesn't notice. She pretends
to examine her fingernails with an elaborate air
of lack of care – but it's too much, too obvious.

Typical, he thinks. All too familiar.
He catches the tremor of her coffee cup
out the corner of his eye. She hates this, clearly,
but yet (he doesn't forget) she can't help
but to help herself. The offer's on the table,
and it's one he knows she can't afford to refuse.

And this he understands, completely –
rising to the shriek of an alley cat,
the call of a nighthawk -
he knows, after all,
that nothing in life is free.