the infinite diner
that’s right, i n f i n i t e .
nd that’s meant beyond terms
of coffee consumption.
it should be seen instead as a reference
to the neon understanding that
is not the true length
of any one person’s day.
it’s a container
made of porcelain undraining,
by a bright server
or her partner that looks
just like her
but only works the nightshift
because there she gets to serve
the un-rich, un-registered,
of the eternal consciousness.
those with all their eyes open
to the particularities of preparing
french toast, texas toast,
indo-chinese or pan-american
T O A S T.
of the cultured experience of bacteria,
ever-hoping that everything will go over easy
but knowing that too much heat for too long
just turns things hard,
so they learn to swallow everlong
nd their general lack of endings.
they are those able to take comfort
in their ability to continually re-begin
beneath a giant ball of fire
because they know there’s a good meal
out there for them if they make the walk
before those ugly hours of uncertainty
when the shifts switch over.
dalton derkson is a punk poet from the Canadian prairies, currently residing in Toronto. He runs Hurtin’ Crüe Press and writes poems for people. Recent publications include ottawater, (parenthetical), and numerous DIY chapbooks.