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.



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