Hey photoman...

Yeah, you with the lens,

stalking the perimeter of the neon twilight.

You’re the coroner of the mid-century ghost,

the guy who clocks in when the jukebox dies.

You see 'em, don't you?

The holy ghosts of the 2 a.m. shift.

They ain't in the frames, but their fingerprints are still warm on the vinyl.

You catch 'em hiding in the corrugated chrome,

in the ribbed metal walls of the diner,

where the grease sings a hymn to the unloved.

Look at that single chair.

Just one.

A stool standing trial under a naked bulb,

waiting for a guy who ain't coming back

'cause he cashed his final check yesterday.

Then you spin the dial, double the trouble,

two chairs face-to-face,

holding hands in the dark,

breathing in the stale smoke of a romance that went bust before the eggs got cold.

You make a porcelain sink look like an altar where the night washes its sins,

and that foot rail... Jesus.

A long, brass pipe of absolute zero,

leading straight down the throat of the evening.

The big shots?

They left hours ago.

But you stayed behind to watch the piano keys paint themselves against the drywall.

You stayed to listen to the jukebox hum a tune for nobody,

while a clock on the wall—shaped like a radioactive starfish—

just chews up the minutes and spits 'em on the linoleum.

Because when the music stops,

and the coffee pots go cold,

and the world tucks its head under its wing...

You’re the one left standing there. Camera in Hand

A collector of images from the lonely hour,

proving that even the empty spaces...

man, they got a hell of a lot to say.