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Poetry Tonight

We for whom all hope is lost
come here to the Nitehawk Diner
where we bare our wounds
once a week.

See the original page one

From a corner table,
the angel speaks:
‘Some are born to pure delight
& some to eternal night.’

Then my demon lover arrives
from the Roserock Cafe
where she works as a waitress.

She hangs on my arm
like a purse.

It's party time here;
the angel is getting quietly drunk
while a dark-haired woman
spills blood on the microphone. 

Through the east windows
you can see the moon, a quarter full,
just above the awnings
of the building across the street;
in the dark three quarters
are seen ocean waves.

This lady sits at the counter, childless,
& the gaunt-faced young man next to her
plays a snake-charmer's flute at her stomach
as if to coach a babe from her barren belly.

Here's the bard with a Whitman beard
(doesn?t read old Walt, he boasts); there's the irregular crazy.

And the Indian woman by the juke box
looks like she's carrying
the moon in her belly

These pictures were originally on menu cards as shown here.

Here at the Nitehawk Diner,
little has changed.
That man still has a mustache
& that girl still has a lad friend.

Just faces in a crowd scene
Painted in guache
by George Gross.

See the original page two

When we leave
we place a quarter
in the flower pot by the door.


Photographs by Cynthia Zimmerman, et al

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