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Jordan Jun 4
I sit in a little pocket within the diner, a booth with a window overlooking the highway. I'm waiting for my ice cream shake to come to room temp just enough to slurp through a straw. I notice a young man with a green cardigan chasing a young lady in a red sweatsuit on the highway. It feels as if I'm watching an episode of Tom and Jerry. I giggle. The young lady removes her sweater and tosses it towards incoming cars. Cars begin to screech through the thick glass.

"******!"

My shake is now ***** water, which I chug in a gulp. I then look out the window to notice that traffic is back to normal. I wonder if she abandoned the sweater or the young man.
Antino Art Feb 16
I feel like we are in
an old Hayao Miyazaki movie.
I suspect we are hand-drawn people
hunched over hand-spun milkshakes from a classic American diner
like Culver's burgers and fries.

I imagine the real me
has fallen asleep on a couch
in front of a microwaved dinner
somewhere in the distant future.
I think I was watching
the snow
fall outside the window
like static on a TV screen.

I could have been watching
the same Saturday morning
on loop,
walking in frames
to the same diner we've been going to since you were five.

There, we meet for breakfast
by the window.
Your hand is drawn wearing a gold wedding ring. I smile behind a silver beard.
Though it's hard to recognize our faces,
we say things that sound familiar

something about
how our favorite
Hayao Miyazaki movies
illustrated the passage of
time
through the eyes of a child

You order a kids meal
with a milkshake
in a classic re-enactment of
the days
I thought would
never end.
Tom Atkins Dec 2019
You sip your coffee in a nearby diner.
The place is empty.
It is too cold outside for wandering,
even to familiar places.

Part of you is still numb,
Historic wounds still holding sway.
You sip your coffee in a strange kind of meditation,
waiting for the feelings to break like river ice.
I am a slow processor of emotions.

I was first exposed to winter rivers clogged with massive blocks of ice piled one on the other until the surface resemble building blocks thrown in a two-year-old’s temper tantrum, when I moved here to New England. Ten years later I love seeing it.

I really am at my favorite diner. It really is empty. Even the cook is downstairs doing some kitchen prep. I use my time in the diner to write, which involved working on breaking my emotions loose.

From those three things, this poem.

But lest you think it was that easy and clear, this began as a long, long rambling sort of poem.  It is a bad writing habit of mine to write around the main thing. I once had a writing teacher, Richard Dillard, who said my life would be spent finding the poem in my poem. He was right. More than he knew.
Helena Apr 2019
my roman nose did not
fit the cupboard womb
as I stared at
the silhouette
of a ketchup stain on  
a breakfast table
raw burger meat,
ripe debutantes
all bathed in
glycerin and
self-destruction
waiting for teeth
or the occasional knife
(chaining themselves
to trees
whose seeds mostly
wander)

I came here alone
(use me and squeeze me)
the insides of the
shrinking constitution,
the demure dissident
such a thrill
to smear my guts
all over the newspapers
to see the visions
of the
ink so
honeysuckle
intertwined


I pressed
against
the greasy
diner table
arms crossed
to hide my face behind
a promise to be
waiting for you
open mouthed
and mute
chiaroscuro, blind
Mara Feb 2019
lingering fingers
drifting eyes
parting away
from some
run down town
and into this diner
our fate awaits
8M Dec 2018
The diner has lots of shakes
Vanilla, chocolate, strawberry
But none of them have the power
To cure my broken heart
8M Dec 2018
Rockhoppers cry in hunger
Like you in that diner
A plate of fish, raw and cold
Was all that appeased you

Like you in that diner
Candlelight burning bright
Was all that appeased you
Lusting for more

Candlelight burning bright
Could not satisfy your gluttony
Lusting for more
Did the fish taste good?

Could not satisfy your gluttony
A plate of fish, raw and cold
Did the fish taste good?
Rockhoppers cry in hunger
I don't really like seafood, to be honest.
Mimi Apr 2018
Suburban’s the only place open this late so we slide
into the red slicker seats, feet locked into orbit, knees chaste:
against the checkered table our hands grasp
empty space, separate by twos.
Graveyard workers chug past, silent ships on a still sea.
Grey-faced one asks to take our order
specials falling off her tongue
by rote, routine, and
on instinct I ask
for the two-for one cheeseburgers and a side of curly fries:
“extra crisp” you used to chime in;
smile in your eyes now
you say
none for me
thanks.
written november 2017
A M Pashley Apr 2018
once, while searching for peace,

comfort found me in the middle of the night.

It came in the form of cups of coffee and plates shared with friends I barely knew.

and under the yellow haze cast from overhead lights

we brushed away the dust of the long summer day

with talks of past mistakes and stories of things we've done.

with gossip and gospel.

on the ride home we talked about human nature

and the weather in Ohio

while through the windshield the moon illuminated the fog and threw shadows on the faces of sleeping backseat passengers.

looking back I realized,

that night, in those hours before sunrise

we constructed a whole new universe around each other.
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