When I feel like a woman in a Hopper painting,
I long for a sunlit diner with a friendly name,
where the waitress calls me Hon, pours coffee,
hot and black, before I ask.
Every day I’ll have the turkey club on toasted white,
complete with frilly toothpicks, chips,
and a sad pickle, just so I can say Yes
when my waitress asks if I want The Usual.
I will overtip when she shrouds
the last wedge of lemon meringue with foil
and saves it for me behind the counter.
But I know myself.
One day, the light will glare, every smudge
showcased on the tall windows, the atmosphere
suddenly as fake as the red “leather” booths.
The Specials will look like leftovers.
I’ll begin to think things like,
“Did they never hear of composting?”
and “What’s with the huge plastic-coated menus?”
I’ll tire of turkey and being agreeable,
dull as a cheap knife.
Sometimes I wonder about myself.
Dorian Kotsiopoulos has featured at various poetry venues in Massachusetts. Her work has appeared in literary and medical journals, including Poet Lore, Salamander, Slipstream, New England Journal of Medicine, JAMA, Women’s Review of Books, Main Street Rag, Third Wednesday, and Belletrist. A member of the Jamaica Pond Poets, Dorian works as a technical writer.
The Ekphrastic Review
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