Lunch Time at the Blue River Inn

Posted on 04 November 2009

A Wandering Jew navigates
the wilderness of duct work,
bearing green leaves on a silent journey
around avant-garde art and Betty Davis posters
like the goat of Azaziel once carried sins
into the ancient night -
without knowledge, without desire.
The cook stirs wild rice soup.
A young farmer sits on a stool
and reads a prophecy of calloused
monotony in his own palms.
Coffee cups string along the counter top,
unstrung pearls, as Jean, the waitress,
pours coffee with a trembling hand.
“I was going to be a dancer,” she says.
“fifteen years ago.” Her left eye twitches
as I roll silverware into paper napkins.
Our work ethic will nourish the noon crowd
while dreams echo around us all, like the rain
that splatters above on the tin roof and then
rolls off, disappearing in the dry, yearning earth.

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