Women at the Diner
A poem by Gina Larkin
Every Thursday for thirty years,
at the same corner table,
they carefully stir sugar,
never a substitute,
into lukewarm tea.
Emily squeezes lemon instead.
She was always the different one,
always wore white after Labor Day,
never came home on time,
sometimes never came home at all,
wore bright red nail lacquer
bright blue eye liner
"I’m going to Athens."
They stop stirring,
even the chairs and tea bags wait.
"His name is Stauros.
He will take me up the Acropolis
past Niki
into the temple.
We fly tonight."
Hatted white heads nod.
Without a word they
replace spoons with forks
scoop up cole slaw and chicken salad.
Emily bites into a kosher dill.
This afternoon
I will buy red lacquer
and blue liner - if
someone will tell me where.
Spring 2008 Poetry:
WHAT'S YOUR POETRY by Doris Arnett Gary
FEATURED POET Joop Bersee
EDITOR'S CHOICE Ashok Niyogi
GUILIN NOODLES by CJ Hallman
FREDDY'S FATHER by Gil Fagiani
WOMEN AT THE DINER by Gina Larkin
WOMAN OF OLIVES by Emma Lorelei Brennan
GHOST by Arlene Tribbia
TO MY AUNT WHO WAS RECENTLY FOUND DEAD IN A MOTEL
ROOM by JoHannah Ash
RED BANK'S CARLTON THEATRE by Gloria Rovder
Healy
READING by Em McAvan
AMEN by Devin T.N. Tanchum
CHRISTMAS COLD by John Bowden
INSIDE by Laine Sutton Johnson
BEAUTY by John McDermott
|
