Sat in the worn seat of a booth
I run my fingers over the faded table, gracing the memories of Sunday mornings
And special occasions, big burgers
and oily french fries, heavy breakfast
Or hearty soup,
The lovechild of the 50s.
YOU ARE READING
What it's like to Wander
PoesieSad whimsy and poetry, maybe flickering embers of love.
a diner.
Sat in the worn seat of a booth
I run my fingers over the faded table, gracing the memories of Sunday mornings
And special occasions, big burgers
and oily french fries, heavy breakfast
Or hearty soup,
The lovechild of the 50s.