You pull into a diner and order your life
to change. On the road
you saw farmhouses
with stacks of frayed hay,
cows leaning into them.
You saw a skinny farmer.
You saw sadder things.
.
But the diner’s incandescence
flickers optimism as if
everyone there wants to know
your dream. You might tell them.
First you stand on the mint-
green seat of your booth
and change the bulb overhead
to get a better perspective.
.
A man in plaid at an opposite
booth thinks you’re staring at him.
But you’re thinking the water
in your glass is warm,
not the oceany blue
you expect from a five-star diner.
You want to ask him for
his turquoise ring. You want
to move to the desert with him.
.
The waitress is suspicious.
You see a scrap of paper with
words written on it, lift it
up as you would your hair.
It contains an awful
pronouncement. You hear
footsteps of the plaid man leaving.