Poetry

The poor arrived in Fords Whose features they resembled … – Hilaire Belloc The outside seating merges with that of the market next door. Beyond an exit lane are a dim sum and a pizza place.

The 1% you worship, their fairy tales you trust; you’ve fallen on the sword, eaten their swill, drunk the Kool-Aid, swallowed the line,– which you now regurgitate at will.

The diner window looks out on a gray-brown truck in gray-brown snow. There seems no clear distinction between the window and the wide table, shared with planks and crumpled tarps. The breadslabs and a white something – cheese – on the girl’s plate

Somewhere back there among the Tel-Stars and the “Ram-a-Lama-Ding-Dongs,” god was rendered inoperative.