How can there be a village where there is no diner? Communion takes many forms.
Sunday Morning at the Diner
At first, it’s just one old fart in the corner
who no longer sleeps well, who still rises
early for the work he no longer does. He
grunts gratitude for coffee and a muffin.
But soon they come from east and west,
north and south to sit at booth and counter.
A buzz of talk, rustling paper, laughter rising
over the sizzle behind the abundant counter
from which a cornucopia of scrambled eggs,
home fries, sausage patties, bacon slices, waffles,
apple pie, glasses of orange juice, heavy mugs
of hot coffee and other breakfast blessings flows.
They spread good news of births and graduations,
slander absent neighbors and elected officials,
tell tales of dead friends and foes, argue sports,
and bitch about bosses, spouses and the weather.
Finally, properly fed and up to date on the latest,
they goodbye in twos and threes to their cars,
clearing the counter for those churchgoers for whom
a pinch of bread and a sip of juice did not suffice.
Note: Accepted for publication in “Blueline” 2023