The Diner, By Brian37 (AKA Brian James Rational Poet on FB/META and @brianrrs37 on Twitter)

All the swivel stools empty
Except for three, two together
On man separately

The short order cook bent over
Maybe he needs an ashtray
What is that she is holding?

Looks like a book of matches
Looks like the lady with red hair
In her red dress, is contemplating

In some weekday off hour
After midnight a few hours later
Dim streetlights illuminate

Asphalt, sidewalks, storefronts
Competing with the lights inside
No interest in their faces

Merely going through the paces
She won’t make bed with him
The fedora knows, he’s alone

And the silver cylinders
Dispensing stale java
Loyal penguins

As hot as fire
But at this 3 am hour
The city streets still

Lost is desire
It seems all involved
Want the night over.
(end)

This poem is about the painting “Nighthawks” at the “Phillies” diner.
(EDIT
I wrote this poem based on a thumb picture that I expanded as big as I could. I flip flopped as to if the lady was holding a book of matches or some sort of pastry/biscuit. I went to a few websites and finally stumbled on a website giving the actual detail history and it was a book of matches. Which is what I suspected.