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.

Standing stock-still
at the window,
watching mist curl
in early morning tortured beauty,
I can only think
‘save me from myself’
so I can see this again.

no offerings

i have nothing to give
you, no handful of flowers
or mouthful of words,
no sweet lies or stark truths

i don’t know anything
and the world is an ugly place

Tip-toeing through the ossuary,
she hummed
a song of sweet mercy
in the undulating moonlight.
Her steps were not careful
and her path was not straight
but she tossed aside worries
of a world sucking away her dreams
like a famished whore in a grimy back alley
and moved to the mossy hill
that smelled like home.

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