It’s the one
right off the highway, quick
and easy to access
for the folks just passing through.
Otherwise
no one would come here
except the locals who were alive
to see the sign
before the paint peeled.
The server comes, a woman,
she takes your order and says
something wise about
the making of omelets
from eggs.
She can tell you’re not from here.
It’s not so much
that the food is exceptional,
but that it’s always served
really, really hot.
Even the coffee burns
like a star in your throat
on the way down.
Let’s attempt to revise a sentence
by the writer James Baldwin:
Maybe home is not a place,
but some sense of lingering,
hard to scrub away
like grease on a spoon.
The diner
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Lizzy Burnam 🐞 
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