Brandy Wine Diner – 1959


It’s three o’clock on a Sunday morning

a curtain of smoke surrounds you
at Brandywine Diner.

Two men share a booth, both sip coffee
from small white cups, their finger’s play
with white bags of sugar.

Across the aisle a young girl sits alone.
She stares through her personal fog.
She holds the wrong side of her cup, and
crushes one cigarette, and lights another –
fog thickens.

A man hung-over a black and white counter
leans on his arms, his clothes soiled by coffee
he spilled, and peeks between his fingers
into the mirror hung, below a stack of
Rice Krispies, Corn Flakes, Shredded Wheat –
the face, of a stranger.

A gust of wind pushes the glass door, open –
blinded by iridescent green.
The man leaning on the counter –
opens his eyes when shimmering green catches
his attention, and attention of a man
reading the paper – startles the girl smoking her
third cigarette.

She struts past the counter and all eyes stare as
she flops into a booth, in the corner, next to a
man wearing a Hells Angel jacket.

Then, I poked my finger into a slit, in the vinyl
seat, picturing the person who held the knife.

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