Tasha Lutek CC
It could be called a diner
or maybe a truck stop.
It was on the freeway that
led to somewhere.
You couldn’t miss it with
its bold lighting and off colored neon sign.
There was plenty of parking
up front and more in the back.
Tired faces greet you as you
enter the door with a bell
that rang when a customer came in.
The curly headed waitress brought the menu.
The menu was simple,
keep it simple. Breakfast, lunch and dinner.
“You want pie, we got pie. Pie
and ice cream.”
“You want to smoke, go ahead
nobody is going to tell.”
“Relax while you are here
but you can’t stay forever.”
before the wood
burns to ashes,
before the flames
curl like dragon tail in the spring
before the smoke turns to dust.
before your tender flower
becomes pressed into a
book of memories.
while the wine remains in the bottle
and darkness still owns the night.
It was 6 in the morning
and I couldn’t sleep due to
dreams that started, then stopped
when they got good. Dreams that
I picked up from one night to the other
as I recall. The wind would rattle the bedroom window
or the leaky gutter would drip
and ping the car out side my window.
the dog wouldn’t stay still, he heard cats
prowling and a coyote on the loose
looking for dinner. I turned from side to side
looking for that perfect position but couldn’t find it.
I remember the dreams being about houses, larger houses
than where I live at. Too many rooms and not enough
people to dwell in them. The landscape was spectacular
with bushes that looked like celebrities straight from Hollywood
and relatives that didn’t exist anymore. Ancient statues adorned the
pool area with the water clear and smooth as glass. The air was
warm and delicious. The smell of roses rolled over the slight hills
and green painted yards.
Then a bear and an elephant wandered by the pool. I hurried to get out
but my feet had grown in the blue colored cement on the bottom of
I rolled over again and the light began to twist through the window,
morning was upon me as the dog had already left the bed waiting at the backdoor
to see whether any cats had remained from their prowling. I got up and hoped
that the dream would appear the next night.
David Stillwagon has had short stories in CommuterLit.com and Johnny America. He has poetry forthcoming in Nine Muses Poetry, Foliate Oak and Right Hand Pointing as well as poems in Clockwise Cat and Lit-up magazines.
Write something about yourself. No need to be fancy, just an overview.