A diner restored

I knew before the waitress came,
I’d miss the old stoneware.
It was thick and oatmeal-colored
with inevitable staining in the cracks.
I’d put my lips where thousands had before
and in a smoky diner, I’d know
a communion of coffee.
No, I knew I’d miss the mugs
just like I miss the chipped formica
and stale fluorescent air
that hovered in the truckstop diner
of my late teens.
My 40’s have unfolded
in a world
of dominant decorators
and twittering tippers
who only find pleasure
when they can see and document it
for quick posterity.
I miss secret-dingy-diner aesthetic.


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