The Calumet Weld

[Verse 1]
It's 3:18 AM at the Globe Diner off the Cline.
Lena's wiping down the counter for the tenth or eleventh time.
And just above the pulse-point where her watch face ought to be,
is a white-hot asterisk of factory filigree.
It's old enough the edges have gone soft and silver-grey,
like a medal for a battle that she won and walked away.

[Chorus]
Does the ghost of that machine still hum inside the bone?
When you're pouring black coffee at three a.m. alone?

[Verse 2]
A busted gasket, maybe, or a slipped transfer chain.
A spray of slag that bit her through the acid-summer rain.
I bet she didn't scream, just made a sound low in her throat,
and smelled her own skin burning through the sleeve of her work coat.
She said "Damn," soft and steady, like she'd dropped a coffee cup,
then wrapped it in a shop rag 'til the shift was finally up.

[Spoken-Word Interlude]
(A gruff, older male voice, muffled, from the kitchen pass-through)
"Order up, Lena. Two eggs, run 'em."

[Chorus]
Does the ghost of that machine still hum inside the bone?
When you're pouring black coffee at three a.m. alone?

[Bridge]
That mark's a piece of ordinance, a story she won't tell.
A tiny, perfect rivet from the architecture of a private hell.

[Outro]
I leave a five-dollar tip for a one-dollar cup.
The question hangs there in the grease as the sun is coming up.