-at another diner-

––seating is at near capacity.

I'm lucky to find a stool at the counter that doesn't wobble.

It's a cranky diner but worth its salt.

this happened in New Bedford, Massachusetts

where 19th century whalers went down to the sea in ships,

where the great sperms were hunted for the surrender

of their necessary oils, and Inns, sitting low at the sides

of narrow, unpaved roads were called: “The Bucket of Blood”—

“A Stove Boat” and "The Widow's Watch”.

––today I’m at the “Shawmut" in the presence of men and women

eating hot food and drinking hot coffee as if they had little time to finish

before returning to their responsibilities.

waitress smiles warmly with my approach.

grill-man nods a sweltering greeting in the quick.

stern-fisher, whose yellow slicker is stained, still,
with the grime of last month's haul, silently minds

to his plate, same as is done within the walls of his house.

as with all diners, the menu's the size of a continent.

––I order up, and to the counter girl it's no surprise.

It's the meatloaf plate.

I contort my expression with the first sip of hot, strong coffee,

the last of the pot.

in time, a heavy, utilitarian plate is placed in front of me

within the constricting confines of my station.

there are strangers all around me, and yet I feel at one

with my brethren at the "Shawmut" today.–– truth is,

I wouldn’t have lasted thirty seconds at “The Bucket of Blood.”