Diner Top

The faint swirled grain

under the fluorescent hum,

fake wood, cold and thin.

My fingers trace the old

cigarette burn, just near

where the sugar caddy sat.

Maple syrup from last week,

dried to a crust, catching

the light. It’s always the same.

This kind of cheap, honest

surface. Every diner,

every kitchen table, a thousand miles ago.