East Branch Diner

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

From heat.

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.

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