She wore his church jacket
over her yellow flowered dress
to walk to the shore and scolded
the kitten that came out to greet her
‘go back go back’
as if she was turning back time
Plunging her hands into the pockets
her fingers fluttered like nervous
moths in the dark
she found a receipt from Denny’s,
the one just off the freeway exit on the way home
1 Grand Slam
1 French Toast
on May 13th, 2007
and she conjured the day, like any other Sunday,
late morning sun slants across the formica
and the weary, smiling waitress offers orange juice,
large or small.
The fog rolls in now, as she stands
toes buried in cold sand
her hair scattered with droplets from the damp
all her yearning persuades the pancake
smells and bitter coffee smells
to surge through her.
The gulls overhead swing through the
mist like vagrant angels.
080209, 080309, 081109
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