A small Friday night poem.

Upon sitting at the Grill.

We sat there waiting for our breakfasts.

Our words streaming in and out of us…

at me.

I hung onto the words, selfishly devoured them,

filling my hunger and pooling into

the desert of my anticipation

like hot water being poured into a cherished, chipped tea cup

found in the back of the cupboard.

Looking outside the window, past your morning shift face,

beside the polished fake 1950s booth,

then back at you,

my fingers traced the plastic menu.

With hope,

I witnessed all the color squeeze out of the grey from the pavement

and flow out of your smiling eyes.

Yonge Street has always wanted to be

a giant, stainless steel diner.

You’ve always been a shiny heart,

a protein surprise,

inside my grumbling stomach.

Dec. 2, 2011

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