The oracle haunts the 24-hour diner
In this vinyl temple, I am the living ox preserving
the heart of a butchered king. I wake sealed lip-to-lip
with my frail reflection on plate glass. Coffee, darker
than the server’s dyed hair, renounces
second-hand headlights off the highway.
I interpret my cream chipped beef, wanting for entrails.
In this heat, it won’t outlast the flies.
The server, batter-white as Bergman’s Death,
kills tea bags, kills crosswords, kills hours.
I utter as I eat, purloin each moment down
my throat like a poached egg. Before dawn,
I abjure home like I abjure the huddled ruins
of complimentary toast. I take one misguided bite, scatter
the remnants for sunrise: crumpled eidolons, stale visions.
Northbound, the 18-wheeler splits my reflection,
and day tumbles out like new-birthed snakes.
where you are, I cannot t e l l



