hearing dishes clatter,
the sound of conversation,
and wicked laughter,
I flash back to an earlier time.
I am with my parents again.
We slide into our places on the plastic bench seats.
My father lights a cigarette
and gazes out the window.
My mother tells us to put our napkins in our laps.
I’m excited because
I will get to choose whatever I want from the menu.
I might be allowed a glass of chocolate milk
and she tells me that I may eat one, but only one, sugar cube.
Now though, I can always pick what I want from the menu
and the appeal of chocolate milk is a distant memory.
They don’t seem to even make sugar cubes anymore.
But when I drive by a diner at night
I can still see men sitting in silence,
staring out the window.