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

 

        &———————&

                    2      4

                   HOURS

        &———————&

 

is not the true length

of any one person’s day.

               it’s a container

made of porcelain undraining,

refilled perpetually

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,

non-card-carrying members

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.

                              those appreciative

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.