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Flickering Sign

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Neon characters illuminate the darkness, penetrating the void of light with a distinguishably bright shade.
A dense fog coats the air, a murky perspective engulfing across the night.
Every breath is tedious through the soupy climate, an arduous testament to the frequent regional precipitation.

We hurriedly scuttle through the glass door below the luminescence, bodies huddled against the adverse environment.
Enveloped in the commotion of merriment, I analyze the room.
A boy scoops ice cream from a bowl, he examines the contents and then his spoon with gleeful titillation.
In a rapid motion, he consumes the content of the spoon and proceeds to grope the bowl with the silverware.
His mother exclaims he needs to slow with a concerned expression adorning her face, a plea that goes unheeded.

Burgers in wax paper carted off infiltrate the nostrils with their savory aroma.
“That looks fantastic,” says my father,
eyes filled with intrigue at the cuisine he beheld.
“Well done, like I enjoy,”

The customers observe from tables through envious glares, hands tightly grasping their glasses.
Red, pressured, digits contorted around their soft drinks and malts,
obvious anxiety permeating the suddenly overwhelming restaurant.

“BURGLAR! BURGLAR!”
Rapid to the counter, stealthy enough to surprise even the most alert feline.
Heads on a swivel, gasping at the scene unfolding.

But the waiter remains unaware, trotting booth to booth.
The families scream as obvious as camouflage,
shouts too sudden,
too unexpected,
too neglected,
into the clicking of a chamber, the falling of a tray.
The flicker of a neon beacon.




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