Scenes From a Diner, Alec Cizak

I.

A fly tip-toed through the swamp, a circle,
a moat around your banana pancakes.

My ears dilated, amplified six strands,
sloshing through the blood of a maple tree.

You called me your ‘faithful little chien,’
pointing your perfect, pyramid-shaped nose

at my clean stack of banana pancakes.

II.

We drank coffee until the sun woke up
Autumn Red, painting a country window.

I spread a map across the lacquered table,
offering you a lemon-colored pen.

You traced a path over Highway 90,
pointing out all the important places

we would pull over and take photographs.


III.

Beat up Chevys and battered Fords revving,
after a Homecoming loss to Brebeuf.

He pin-balled from one party to the next,
like a detective, derelict, or dog.

She agreed to nothing more than a ride,
pointing to a Waffle House on Keystone,

where they shared a pot of house-blend coffee.