The Milkshake Would Not Be Dead
I would sail, Juliet—
Like Ishmael, I suppose—
A star-lit Atlantic Ocean
To sip at a cherry milkshake
Across a formica table from you.
(I guess this means the dead word love.)
Bob and Edith’s,
The diner where I used to order
Omelets and white toast
And margarine and coffee,
At 3 and 4 in the morning,
Is on Columbia Pike,
Just a lazy hill or two from here.
We could clink our water glasses
And play Ry Cooder on the juke box,
While watching through the big windows
Metal cars rolling by with their purpose.
(I think that the cars’ lights would mean
The dead word love, too.)
The check for 4.99 would never arrive,
For we would sit, as if immortal,
Surrounded by the sacred air of the night,
Laughing about the job I do not have