A poem by Ben Groner III

Perusing the diner’s breakfast menu,
lazily tracing the yellow and turquoise
boomerangs on the gum pink counter,
I glanced up and spotted a table in
the corner, remembering all those
younger Thursday evenings with my
grandfather just as the waitress asked:
“What would you like, my dear?”
‘I’ll take the char-grilled chicken and
collard greens, please,’ he’d say with
a smile, removing his woolen tam
“I’ll take the char-grilled chicken
and collard greens, please, and—”
I peeked at my watch. 7:30 a.m.
“Oh, I’m sorry ma’am. I’d like two
scrambled eggs; corned beef hash
(extra crispy, please); a side of fruit;
and a bran muffin, sliced and grilled.”
‘What are collared greens, grandpa?’
I asked once. ‘They’re a dressier kind
of lettuce,’ he’d said with a chuckle
Conversation suffuses the crowded
café: all the laughing and rambling
and murmuring of words between
people who have known each other
a long, long time.
This work was featured in issue #10