Stop here. Eat well. Welcome.
This is a transient place
And I am in it.
There are regulars, though not many.
I’ve seen them before.
Dust up to their knees,
They have the breakfast.
From the window, I see no sky.
I see no distant horizon.
Only the mountain, and the lights,
And a cloud that consumes the earth
In the same tired way it always has.
I order four on reflex. Too much,
But I’ll eat it regardless.
I feel that soft warmth in my hands,
And it’s like a memory, only tastier.
I pay gladly, tip well
And drive toward where the sun should be.
I’ll come again soon.
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