Just past midnight there’s a revival
of stragglers and empty pocket
musicians at a corner diner
where the boisterous aroma of
grease and burnt toast fill
stagnant air. Writers with frayed
collars, artists wearing scuffed
shoes and actors not yet acting
sit on red vinyl seats around black
formica tables. There is rebellion
in crooked smiles while sober eyes
blink and tired tongues whisper
about yesterday; coffee cups, hash
browns and cold scrambled eggs
lay scattered on tables. The diner
is a mecca, an oasis for new words,
old thoughts and where the
absurd makes sense. Songs and
poetry are scribbled on napkins.
Roger Singer 