Breakfast at the Hollywood Diners
It’s seven o’clock
and she has her eggs the same
side up sunny and
smiles at her own hurried state.
(No time for that kind of romance now.)
It’s breakfast at the Hollywood
and the talk is all snow and cold
and lateness and slush and
something cursed as
“The Ol’Man of the North”
has finally arrived.
Bus chains jingle and
coffee cups clink and
pocket change signals
a tip in a wink.
Elliot Street will remain untouched.
And from the window I’m running home to,
I will look for white memories
when I finish this poem.