the exile diner

The Vermeer-veneer of sunlight
has long left,
and the lit cigarette butt
burns like tawdry halogens.

I am behind its flame,
almost three inches back,
so passers-by don’t know
if I’m coming or going—
and neither do I.

Why haunt a place so devoid of people,
built by them for them,
then abandoned?
Only I remain
with the wilted wrappers and broken glass
that pass for wind chimes
when there’s nothing else,
and there isn’t.

It’s a twisted ghost town
populated by shades
who blend with the night,
defy the day,
and never look you
in the eye.

Half-mast heads float
over purposeless feet
that pretend through locomotion
that there’s someplace to be.

(Mine took me here—honest or broken,
you decide.)

But if we’re in exile,
let’s at least call it that.
The run-down diner’s
got a spare neon sign
meant for purgatories like this,
where people convene
between A and B,
without ever knowing what either mean.