At the Elysian Diner

A woman in a poppy-print tent dress and a man sporting
a mud puddle-color mock turtleneck sweater take turns 

spinning yarns that tumble to the formica in interlocked
mid-century designs. Alone at the next booth, you pick up

random sequences of words. The woman says, “I want
a different backstory.” You see a silver train arriving 

at a ghost town station. The man replies, “I was driving
in the rain, when a car in front of me suddenly swerved.” 

You watch him carve an arc into the air. You press
the heels of your hands to your eyes. The afternoon 

is steadily turning to a play performed with tweezers.
Unfocused drizzle dims the window. You think: 

If an angel squandering misspent hours were to scoop
me in its awful wings, if one night the blurry rushes 

were to vibrate the muddy river to song… The man takes
a comb out of his pocket, runs it through thinning hair

in one unbroken move. The woman slides out sideways,
scowls as she snags her red tights on the vicious vinyl.