Road-trip

Inside the diner,
I imagine the cook like a mother bird,
regurgitating food on plates.
It is the only interesting thought
I have had all day.
Your face is a black hole,
magnetic and full of tornadoes;
sunlight disappears inside it forever.

I make towers of little sealed cream cups,
like tiny urns of liquid ancestors.

The waitress
dangles her little notebook by our table.
I look out the window,
waiting for you to speak to her.

"We're just enjoying the view,"
you say. She snorts,
"Goddamn tourists."

When we go out to our car,
someone's child is drawing daisies
with chalk on the sidewalk.
She doesn't even look up
as we pass,
stepping carefully over thin green stems
and uncurled leaves.