at the nighthawk

the late night
stops
at dives
in the middle
of nowhere.
3 a.m.
coffee and eggs.
a few strips
of bacon.
hash browns
and toast
with butter and
jam. more
coffee.
a lingering rain.
a waitress who has
seen everything,
and knows you
inside out.
she leaves you
to yourself,
filling
your cup with each
nod of your head.
you're a figure
in a hopper
painting,
a cliché. a
silhouette
in the window.
a shadow
moving through
the night.
your epiphany
is that the future
is not what
it used to be.