the diner

Cars filled up the parking lot,
Window full of faces staring back,
Restaurant filled to capacity,
I walk in and walk over to the counter.
Waitresses collecting drinks,
Placing them on their trays,
Four cooks crammed into a ten by five space,
Pressed up against the stainless steel grills.
Stream rising from a mound of potatoes,
Eggs and bacon splattering grease,
As the waitresses jockey for tables,
Jockeying and trading responsibilities.
I sit down on a stool out of the way,
Trying to remain inconspicuous,
Trying to avoid the blame,
But then I remember I’m only passing through.
Asian cook-black straight hair peeking under cap,
Next to a tall white guy, mid-twenties both,
Latter with a Detroit cap on, ½ inch gold necklace,
Next to two older black men, shorter than the first.
Looking around the place, see so many faces,
Aging hippies, young alternative-types,
Colored hair and pierced faces,
And construction workers on the way to work.
Amidst the noise and tumult someone asks,
“Have you been helped?”
I look up at the waitress, answer loudly,
So she can hear me, so she won’t misunderstand.
I always assume they don’t understand,
Maybe I speak too softly,
Maybe I don’t enunciate my words,
Maybe they expect broken English.
Raindrops cling to the windows,
Half-suspended, half-expectantly,
Through otherwise clear glass,
No sign of fog, despite the heat inside.
I feel exposed and vulnerable,
I can’t hide from the cars whizzing by,
The late summer rain offers no reprieve,
Too cold, too late, crops dead in the fields.
The waitress brings my coffee,
I shut all else out and pour in half-and-half,
I stir in a thermos worth of sugar,
Warm my hands and warm my soul,
Holding onto the Styrofoam like life itself,
Before heading back out into the freezing rain.