Sanctuary

A cup of coffee.
The smell of bacon in the air.

The early morning feathers through lace curtains.
warm, yellow, winter cold.

At the counter, a klatch of farmers talk
over pancakes.

The cook sings along with the radio
as he flips eggs, over easy.

Your fingers lightly touch the keys
as you write in your journal.

Two strangers in the corner strike up a conversation,
suddenly strangers no more.

They know your name here.
You know theirs. A simple equation

for sanctuary.
Food is optional.

About this poem

I am sitting at my favorite diner this morning. I’ve been coming here for five or six years, through five owners. It’s like a chapel to inspiration, eggs extra.

The photograph is one I took for a black and white challenge that floated through the internet a month or two ago.

Tom