24-hour diner outside of Denver,
and I feel your absence.
The sun will rise in ninety minutes
and streaks of orange will light Sloan’s lake,
but now it is dark. Now, the lonely booths
shine red like Dorothy’s slippers.
I click my heels and wish for home:
your younger sister complaining
I’m around too much, your contact
solution on my bathroom counter,
your Irish soda bread sliced
on the table—the best I’ve ever had.
Breakfast at Scott’s
