East Branch DinerPosted on December 28, 2012 with 0 comments
Her raspy voice cracked the chill
Of sub life climates, ice shells on illusions
Of limitless childhood.
Her hair greyer, flatter, her body grander but more fragile.
Or just me.
a year past flung and flinging
In feverish pitches with pointless posters and presentation.
I never open the laminated menu.
I am a sog of man wilted before the waitress
“honey” that diner dose of tea and pie.
Though the bill comes so soon
another lifetime will pass, with
only fleeting moments flash in fps to slow to calculate.
Of homecoming holidays in a habitat of hounds and foxes not men.
The gravity of the moment bends space time
In accordance with mass, energy and the speed of light
which now dims to a dull aluminum, and flakes
fall with forces of asteroids when moments before they
Lifted that old melody “chestnuts roasting”
Out of my chest.
Sweats distracted, my wife peering into Titou’s plate,
Wondering like me how to fill the lengthening of time
From one pickle to another.
The weight so great, boulders now burden, bolster and blistering
Built up in massive molecular motion, and a misused misery.
Of what? Or Where?
To juxtapose, transport, dilate or warp
conjures this mess.
Or is it fried foods.
The old highchair.
The faded watercolors.
Is it fear or nostalgia?
“Don’t let it be another year.”
I cry no, louder than is warranted, and rush to the
Honda Toaster, where cans of Dr. Pepper from now
and years past fill the front.