Diner

All-American,
air filled with the smells of indistinguishable food,
of grease.
The hiss of the grill,
music too loud to enjoy.
Is that typical?

Voices murmur in a collage of conversations
an occasional word sneaks through
meaningless to me.

Oh, the menu.

Pancakes
bacon
scrambled eggs
hash browns
Biscuits and gravy
endless cups of coffee,
black.

Voices shout
order up
number 93.
Not mine
I’ve already eaten.

I continue to sit
alone in my booth
cracked vinyl seat,
table edged in grooved aluminum,
enjoying
the All-American feel.
A diner filled with a melting pot of faces.
The perfect place
to wait for the lines to subside
so that I can vote.

© Michele Markley 2008