The Witch of the 24-Hour Diner

Her spatula traces runes in the griddle’s grease,

each pancake flipped with a whispered *please*—

*"Maple syrup like liquid gold,

for the lonely, the lost, the bold."*

Truckers slump over coffee cups,

steam curling secrets up, up—

she stirs in cinnamon, stirs in time,

*"Drink deep, dear, the night is long."*

Sheriffs leave bullets by the sugar jars,

teenagers press scrawled wishes under jam jars,

her pie crusts crack like fate unfolding—

*"Blackberry stains mean magic’s holding."*

At 3 AM, the fryer hums hymns,

bacon popping like distant gunfire dim.

She serves second chances on chipped plates,

*"Eat up, angels. The dark waits."*

Dawn comes. The neon sign flickers dead.

But her booth stays warm,

her syrup still red—

*"Come back when the world gets mean,

I’ll always be here,

flipping hope

on a diner’s dream."*