We've Lost That Squeaky Feeling (another filler)

These clean, neat wooden slats
That make up the floor remind me
Of Mohonk's main dining room, how
Expansive it felt when empty, how
Small when filled with people
And the talk and the clatter
They brought with them, how
I cleaned, swept those floors, how
The sound my shoes made
Echoed across the boards,
How different the old, lazy linoleum
Of a diner can be without sound.
How empty our booth
Just inside and to the right of the door.
How I waited with a glass of water, cold,
Ice floating at the top, like I could never do
As a child, how I dove, though, how I
Positioned my knobby body on the long,
White board, how I arched my arms to slice
Through air, through water, through
To the vinyl floor. How I rubbed
The dents and the dips in its skin
With my fingertips, how I imagined
I heard squeaking. Like how a poet can keep
Caressing a difficult word, trying to eek
Something out of it - and fail.