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.



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