Martin Porter

Late Night at Phillies Diner


We sit here,
not incommunicado,
more non-communicado
in the fluorescent lamp light,

the couple not intimate,
not looking at each other,
soda boy busy cleaning up his own world,
lonely guy even more alone,

each leaning against a warm wood counter.
A harsh electron glow lights up the roadway,
strangely empty, even for this time of night
in an always waking city that never, ever rests.

A small movement in time and space,
bright centre to suburban twilight,
not such a gap. Five people closely scattered,
one continuous bar, not one uttered word.



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