DINER MINTS

 

The threat of feces

Looming in trace amounts

Next to the toothpicks

And cash register

At the State Line Diner,

Makes waiting

For change

Worth the fistful

Of after-dinner mints.

 

No spoon to speak of

No chute to shake

An exposed bowl

Open as the highway

Beyond this gravel lot;

Anonymity packed into

Pastels communally touched,

We, as late-night patrons,

Are united.

 

How many hands

Have passed through

These candies?

How many interstate truckers

Have known this bowl?

Or women, who bought

Small black coffees,

On icy nights

In late February,

Just to use the restroom?

 

WHEN IT STARTED FEELING LIKE MY NEIGHBORHOOD
 

After 9/11 it felt safe living on 143rd and Amsterdam

Didn't matter much anymore, that I was the only redhead on the block

Army trucks moved down Broadway glacially

And unfamiliar planes flew low along the Hudson

As candlelight fluttered on each stoop all through the evening,

Peaceful like Midnight Mass, only it wasn't Christmas,

Wasn't even time yet to gut pumpkins of their seed and pulp.