In the chemical light of Ms Florence’s diner
beneath burnt phosphor and burnished polymers
of hexamethylene, the Tuesday special
entices in some extra customers,
sipping coffee on formica table tops,
as ribs of stainless steel embrace the walls
like polished bumpers on my new Chevrolet,
and complement the shine of waxed
linoleum. The waitresses are Botticelli blond,
three graces on a diner’s half-shell,
one buxom, one stout, one dropdead gorgeous,
with a porcelain sheen to her skin.
Here, today, her perfectly brewed coffee
in a lusterless mug unfolds
its fine bouquet of smells.
She is the kind of wholesome woman
one wants to wake to in the morning
- a menu for the eyes – a number three,
eggs up of course, with home fries,
toast and marmalade,
a breeze mysteriously arranged
along the curtained window sill,
so that one feels the fullness
in one’s body wanting
to thank the Lord for this ampleness.
Please note I do not ask
my waitress out, but watch the sweet
erotic play of light about her wrists,
the way she blends into her work,
the bare, smooth muscles of her arms
like a well oiled machine
ushering in the morning’s tasks,
wiping down the milk machine,
rubbing a rag along the counter top,
beginning again the languid
movements of her trade,
wondering if the dance I want
is the imagination’s dance,
the poem of the diner
with its hungry song
and the sweet milk of its body
sliding into the new day.
