Diner

 

It's dark,

sleeping hard

I'm jarred

alarm awake.

 

My wife and daughter

still asleep, don't

work or learn today

this week before Christmas

 

Shaving

there is a quietness

best left

undisturbed.

 

Dressed

I leave

without the usual

bowl of cereal and

 

avoiding the freeway,

ramble slowly down El Camino Real,

'royal road',

a watchful eye out

for a diner.

 

Six thirty am - many are closed,

except fast-food shops where

hunched figures evince

something lost in

the eating.

 

Closer to work now I

angle off toward

the freeway. My body

remembers the diner;

one block over , one block in.

 

 

I'm the second customer

The low hum of

preparation washes me.

Time passes

and now leaving,

these visual recollections flow as I ready

to the pay the bill.

 

Hard Formica ribbon,

narrow, stretching in both directions

from my round counter chair,

steaming mug of coffee 'americain',

Graham Greene and an empty plate.

 

Small, sort-of-blond, waitress.

Eyes that look,

are looked

into;

souls.

 

Her efficiency.

She recommended

the simple plate

of spicy sausage, two eggs,

hash browns.

 

An unbearable lightness of being

in this place of human warmth,

soda fountain glasses waiting later day indulgences,

booths, Santa hats and glittery socks

cover the other waitress.

 

The usual condiment collection soldiers

stand every other chair apart

at counters edge

awaiting their call.

Small blond gets Christmas day off!

It's a Sunday,

says usually she has to fight for that.

 

My soul now filled,

lays a tip clearly too small for

what was served

under uncleared plates.

 

 

gf 94