alone at the diner
half and half
galaxies swirl around
the top of my watery
diner coffee
as I pretend to read
little paperback Steinbeck
so nobody will
bother me
with extra conversation
but after 4 cups of coffee
and 3 cups
of warm soup (crackers crumbled)
I’m ready
To at least
converse with the waitress
but she is busy
shuffling around the room
pouring burnt black watery coffee
into white porcelain mugs
held by retired
old tired people
trying to get through
another day
so I flip
Steinbeck back open
to my spot
marked by packet of Splenda
and bend inward
just a little more
and the galaxies
swirl above
as well as in my mug
while Steinbeck
goes on about the every-man
and the injustices that
will certainly befall us
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