at the diner

At the diner -

she clutches her spoon like a weapon and her mug like a shield

break the skin of my coffee with a sugar cube  - the crystals soften, darken kiss farewell my fingers

I hear a hundred ‘how is everythings’

Water glassed filled after every sip - if these waiters stood above the sahara it would blossom

someone in the corner is reading a novel over her eggs

and she is the fifth person today to remind me of the same old friend.

I remember a sunny field of grass where as a child I stepped on a wasp

perhaps the sun shone then as now, or perhaps there was then the same cloying smell of white flowers as the trees stickied the spring air

last munch of eggs

outside these doors the world will gnaw my underbelly

I will stay a little longer with my scraps of toast.