Gas Station Formica

The spilled coffee made a bloom

against the swirled, chipped Formica. A faint fume

of yesterday's bacon, cheap detergent, hung

under the fluorescents, where my elbow had swung.

My grandmother's kitchen, just like this,

but brighter, full of summer's kiss.

Her pattern was green, mine's a faded tan,

but the cold, hard touch, a familiar plan.

How something so flimsy, so easily scratched,

can hold so much time, a memory attached.

I wipe the spill clean, but the pattern stays there,

a ghost of old kitchens, thin in the air.