by Leonard M Hawkes
It's that raw edge--
Where the town touches the road.
Strangers mostly (real or want-to-be),
Except the often wild and sad
Who work the counter.
Young perhaps, lonely,
Ragged and unkempt by choice,
Or fat and ageing from trucking,
Or Mormon, and here to drink
Milk-coffee on the sly;
But we share the aroma of food--
Fast and cheap, the relative calm
Of sparse morning business,
The cold self-absorbtion of waking,
And the solace-neutrality of the edge.
Author's Note: West Tremonton,UT State Road 102 and I-84
Posted on 04/21/2015
Copyright © 2023 Leonard M Hawkes
|Member Comments on this Poem|
|Posted by Nadia Gilbert Kent on 04/21/15 at 06:26 PM|
Ha! As a former resident and anthropology researcher of SLC, this rings so true. Find myself wanting the second section to be expanded upon, barring all tones of your innate politeness. There's so much meat there worth sinking your teeth into.