Parking the car near the walk of clean concrete
we step onto the country street
and fish for coins; finding a nickel and dime
to feed the parking meter, we climb
steep steps and enter the “Steel Trolley Diner.”
Inside, the Norman Rockwell scene is complete:
Customers in colorful shirts cap silver counter
stools, blue curtains cool window sills, and a red
Coca Cola clock ticks above the busy grill.
Spatulas scrape amid conversation as eggs spill
and speak with a language of their own.
White uniformed, wearing a Stetson and sneakers,
the waitress takes our order, her blond
ponytail hanging like a satin rivulet
across her shoulders and streaming down her back.
On the table, paper place mats display
a local map. I find the county seat
and a covered bridge beyond the railroad track.
We smear homemade rolls with grape jelly,
drink coffee, and consume a pacific hour
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