Two-lane U.S. Highway in the Midwest.
A canyon of tall corn contains the shimmer
of the road reflecting heat
from the late sixties sky.
Sticky teal vinyl grabs the
bare backs of my legs.
Cast chrome projectiles jut
out from the metal dashboard
attempting to invoke space age
Quonset hut on one corner
dressed up as a diner.
A rusty 7UP sign announces good intentions.
Screened in porch serves as a dining room.
Dust flies and gravel groans as
our whitewalls pull up next to a
not yet faded blue Fairlane parked in front.
Picnic tables covered with paper cloth
serve nicely as the seating.
A woman, dark hair, poodle cut,
takes our order.
A Vitalis encrusted man wearing a white
t-shirt and gray slacks,
dungarees are for hoodlums,
cooks the food.
A mini-submarine shaped tank of
propane located outside
provides fuel for the grill.
The grill toasts bread for my grilled cheese
A bag of potato chips is unclipped from a display.
Paper plates and napkins soak up the grease.
Nobody can hear the changes
climbing the horizon.