Beetlebung and Kettlehole--April Poems

At the Diner

Under the fan’s breeze, she reaches
with giant hands to pour coffee,
the aroma pervasive as perfume.
“Pancakes, no eggs, coming up!”
She’d serve roses, if she could
for my notes on the napkin
about our fortunes deranged,
as we both would do anything
for a good story.