Showmanship

This is the diner on Main Street, that quaint old establishment;
breakfast awes me with Maxwell House coffee, scrambled eggs,
a slab of thick bacon, toast with grape jam and a waitress
with ponytail lively as today.

Man enters suddenly, drops a thin key chain, but I
discern no key; rather, a heart holds my eyes, 
as would beauty, as would outré often.
There is a clunk from the heart drop
and I see slight waves in the java.

Stranger to posit a heart, I say, stranger this breakfast
in diner placed, not constructed (tis trolley of steel,
tis true Americana).  Here with my USA paper
and time, I watch a gaunt man depart; I hold
the chain and the heart in my hand and then
sip lukewarm coffee.

Maybe there’s message in Twilight Zone drop,
maybe there’s sterling in chain.  Here comes
the waitress, white-sneakers and Stetson,
a grin like country warmth.

Holding the heart in my hand (lucky stone sized and
pink this wee keepsake.)  Stetson girl Flo is the sun
for a time with a countenance spring-like.  She
takes a-hold of the heart and the chain,
whispers, “Wow,” as she readies more
Maxwell House Joe.  We question each
other with looks null and crippled; this
is peculiar, we both do agree--steaming 
hot coffee she pours.

I am tight-lipped but not tight to a fault...so I look up
and announce: “This is a diner that I love so dear,
like a Norman Rockwell scene; this is breakfast
repair, with a Coca-Cola clock on the back wall,
silvery counter stools, placemats with red barns,
sycamores, covered bridge..."
"Here is a pocket of love for the time,
even parking meters too.”

“I see your point...“ and as she lays the heart back
down, we both can agree; much can be gained
from words, wherein oft more can be learned
by mere actions.


40 Lines
Writer’s Cramp
8-20-16