Day 530, December 7, 2021

The Last Diner

Eggs and toast, 
left over stir-fry, 
pad Thai. 
Every day my car starts with a Tom Petty song. 
Today there were no photogra/phs, 
I ran up a long hill like an old Asian man, 
and best laid plans were laid to waste. 

In a few days I will have a day off, 
and then another. 

Children change their plans, 
landing on Wednesday, 
then Thursday. 
One city, 
and then another. 
I forget to bring one thing, 
but then remember another. 

Someone is waiting in a very long line. 

Did you blow me a kiss? 
It is hard to tell behind a mask. 
We will surprise one another some day, 
when we can see each other’s faces. 

I can imagine sleeping for a very long time. 
I wait for a drink, 
a bite of food, 
an inanimate object, 
to give me pleasure. 
Maybe I will join a religion, 
align with a political affiliation, 
imbibe in doctrinal Marxism, 
become an guileless entrepreneur, 
learn how to fix refrigerator ice makers, 

believe in something. 

How many beginnings does one person get? 
Sometimes pauses are swallowed up by the margins and it is as if they never existed. 
Space. 
Delete. 
It is the same. 

I ate breakfast in a diner that reminded me of the place I ate in twenty seven years ago. 
The same eggs and toast, 
the same home fries, 
the same mug of coffee. 

There used to be an Italian cookie place, 
and a quickie mart. 

I walked there from my apartment, 
ordered scrambled eggs and toast,
home fries and bacon, 
peeled back the lid of the thimble of cream, 
eventually waved off the waitress’ proffer of coffee, 

and wanted to remember the time before the accident. 
Never the same. 
Before the time was up and it was time to go. 
Before when the skies were silent and my parents slept with the Muslims.

June Bug and Hambone


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