-Corrina, and a universally understood line from John Lennon-

“Please Sign the Book of Condolences”

reads the little note which is elegantly printed

on heavy milled paper and carefully folded

like a pup-tent upon a glassy desktop.

a long, tapered pen matching its heavy base is provided.

the book is open, and the last signatory 

to the solemn event has skipped a space

before she entered her name.

I’ll skip a space below

and sign the register having recognized

her name as somehow meaningful.

I’ll hang-around the desk for a moment

scraping a saucy-beef smudge from my necktie

with my fingertip, waiting for the elderly gentleman
behind me to sign his name into the Book of Condolences

before I move to the parlor to pay my respects.

earlier, I slipped a generous tip of folding money

partially below my coffee mug on the diner’s counter.

to be successful, one has to move deliberately,

adjusting for the right moment so she can see you do it.

maybe then her smile will mean something,—

something beyond the quick acknowledgment with the prompt

delivery of the steamed, saucy, meatloaf plate.

( It's a: "Go to a show, you hope she goes.." sort-of moment. )

ah! the gentleman has signed directly below my name

and "Corrina" glistens like a winding blue river between its banks

on the approach to the gateway of purple-scented Parlor No. 3.