A cool skin night. Wood smoke.
An outpost called a diner harbors
evening spirits resting between points
at a highway turnoff. Exiled souls from
other places stare with deep nostalgia of
where they should be. Few ever break
the cycle of bleary eyes and dark roads.
A stitching of alignment bonds the
strangers. They eat without looking
around. Their soft voices
respect the exhaustion of travelers
dining at the altar of gas burners,
accepting their assignment of
a cultural death, they are unable to change.
Roger Singer 