Diner Morning
It’s like a no-maintenance family
these waitresses who give out genuine smiles
as casually as sticks of spare chewing gum
here, in this bountiful place of collectible clutter,
a song, allegretto, of the clink and clatter of glass
and flatware
where jukebox rock and conversation
are washed in the continuous, insistent
exhalation of the soda machine
I distract myself with the crunch of bacon,
near burnt, the way I like it, savory and frail like
our transient joys, lying prostrate waiting for teeth
and with eggs scrambled, the potentiality
of life broken and poured out
for the forgiveness of my sins
while orange slices bleed succulent tears
which my tongue reveres
like a sacrament.
Miss?
Check, please.
-- January 2006
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