This morning 400 miles from home
you had breakfast with half the waitresses
he’s loved, their hashbrown hair,
their sunny side up. The coffee reeked
of tap water, but their smiles
tipped up through fog. They’ll do a dozen
miles on shift,300 laps of counter.
You paid your check and wondered
where to go from here, and how
on earth and whom to love.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem