We for whom all hope is lost
come here to the Nitehawk Diner
where we bare our wounds
once a week.
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From a corner table,
the angel speaks:
‘Some are born to pure delight
& some to eternal night.’
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Then my demon lover arrives
from the Roserock Cafe
where she works as a waitress.
She hangs on my arm
like a purse.
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| It's party time here;
the angel is getting quietly drunk
while a dark-haired woman
spills blood on the microphone.
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Through the east windows
you can see the moon, a quarter full,
just above the awnings
of the building across the street;
in the dark three quarters
are seen ocean waves.
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This lady sits at the counter, childless,
& the gaunt-faced young man next to her
plays a snake-charmer's flute at her stomach
as if to coach a babe from her barren belly.
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Here's the bard with a Whitman beard
(doesn?t read old Walt, he boasts);
there's the irregular crazy.
And the Indian woman by the juke box
looks like she's carrying
the moon in her belly
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Here at the Nitehawk Diner,
little has changed.
That man still has a mustache
& that girl still has a lad friend.
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Just faces in a crowd scene
Painted in guache
by George Gross. |
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When we leave
we place a quarter
in the flower pot by the door.
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19.I.83
Photographs by Cynthia Zimmerman, et al
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