-at another diner-

seating is at near capacity.

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

but the stool's leatherette seat-cushion is torn

and the edge of the tear is sharp and unforgiving.

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”.

in the here now the stainless, gleaming
eateries are called the “Shawmut” and

“Angelo’s Orchid”—

where the meatloaf plate is

delicious with a huge scoop

of real mashed at the “Shawmut”

and “Angelo’s Orchid” whose

"New England Style ONLY!" clam chowder

is first-rate.

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.

It might merely be an impression,

but I feel I'm treated with a common respect

granted for the sole act of entering, which
in diner-song is enough.

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.

the diner is quiet save for its mechanics,

and although people are talking, the sentences

they make are indiscernible. 

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.”