Tim Prythero

has a closed sign
in the window
but if it were open--
and life sized--
I might be inside
half spinning
on the cracked red vinyl of a counter stool

or alone in a booth
head bent
over an incongruous book
of French aesthetic philosophy
picking at a BLT
nursing a cup of coffee--regular--
and an often broken heart

I was at the MacDowell colony
when I was young
thanks not to my fame
but a good letter of recommendation
and every day lunch was delivered
in a basket
but I was restless
unused to writing
for more than fifteen minutes
and so started driving
to every diner I could locate
or walking to the one in town

I loved someone
who didn't love me,
or several someones
set my heart to strife,
how could I know
that from then on
a diner would make me happy?
where I'd drink slightly bitter tap water
leave a tip in hard currency
and go on to what I'd later call
the rest of my life.