Nights the place would glow white like a glass spacecraft with every interior light turned on while landing in the Mohave at midnight. And she was there in pink uniform, pen and pad in front pocket, pot of coffee in hand, and interest in her eyes.
An all-night diner isn’t home not the type of home most understand but a feeling of escaping into a non-reality of being someone of interest and of value. She would ask more? Then pour. I would nod and sip. Brown and blue would meet above the counter while the blues
blasted from the corner. Some rich guy who could afford a quarter to feed the jukebox. Refills free for me. I came back every night until she graduated college with her art degree and I graduated to a drink stronger than black coffee.
W. Barrett Munn is a graduate of The Institute of Children’s Literature. His adult poetry has been published in San Antonio Review, Awakenings Review, Copperfield Review Quarterly, Sequoia Speaks, Book of Matches, and many others. He lives in Tulsa, Oklahoma.
