Mike Bayles Poet Other

Breakfast for One

Housemates are sleeping on the couch in the living room as I come down from the loft. A bowl with a fork lies on the living room floor. It’s already ten o’clock. Unopened mail lies on the desk. An argument overheard last night lingers. There are some stories mentioned too often. Some are never told. Bare limbs next door wave in a gust of wind. I grab my keys, go for a drive.

    a line of trees

Just upriver and past a foundry at the edge of Bettendorf, a diner in a red building lies to the side of a busy road. A family business, I figure. The hostess smiles and asks how many. I say one, just me. She smiles. Seat yourself, she says. The sight of a server catches my eye before she comes and gets my drink. I watch a match of women’s tennis, as I had years ago and occasionally glance at her. Conversations of families bubble through the room. The server brings me my bacon, tender, just as I wanted. We share kind words. Maybe that’s all I need for now. 

     the Mississippi hides

In time, I’ve learned to love each small town along the river a little more. LeClaire hosts antique shops, the Buffalo Bill Museum on the shore and a paddle wheel. I’ve made friends with people at the public library and shown them poems I wrote before I take the manuscripts home. Each time I laugh and say the piece I write is never finished. Today I stop by a craft shop, and sunlight glows through a stained-glass window. The woman who it made has moved out of town.

   and whispers

Each time I drive I take in the scenes of what I already love. Sometimes I notice something new. Waters rise when a barge moves downstream, as it recalls an era of paddlewheels and steamboats. Captains far away from families navigate their way through changing currents but stay true to the channel. Mark Twain once said humans are a curious species, and I must agree.
This morning, I drove to the diner on a whim, and the bacon was good. The table set for me.

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