You don’t want to tell another Rust Belt sob story
but here you are, looking at your reflection
in the gritty windows. Through the grime,
you can see a long counter, a few booths,
tables and chairs turned over, legs splintered and broken.
Still, you can imagine a time when drivers stopped here
for a bite to eat and a bit of friendly company.
Waitresses brewed pot after pot of coffee, never decaffeinated.
Maybe the cooks were college kids working to cover
tuition or the price of textbooks. Maybe the dishwashers
celebrated their first real jobs, only to find themselves
elbow deep in soap suds and plates drenched in leftover food,
glops of ketchup and mustard, and crumpled napkins.
You could find out what really happened here,
look up local news stories that explain the local economy,
record a quote or two from local officials, but instead
you turn to the whispers behind you. Rust bleeds
from nuts, bolts and nails. A torn flyer with old gas prices
flaps in the wind. You can almost hear moss
crawling through the crumbling bricks and the weeds
pushing through every crack in the parking lot.
Soon, all stories, real and imagined, will be lost forever.
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