Tuesday, June 28, 2022

Ninety-seven: “Where do the stars go?”

I sit in a seat my father once sat upon

In a small town diner off the green.


I am tasting the coffee as he must have.

My mother would be sitting there too.


They’re smelling the bacon and eggs

as I count sixty years of burned toast.


What I can’t imagine now is how

they let the years pass by.


I wonder, would I have been me?

Would you have been you?


Do you think we would have found each other

in a small town diner off the green?


When I die and if I go to heaven

is it ok if it’s 1962?



©️Mark W. Ó Brien 

28June2022


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