by Robert Rothman

There’s a human warmth in diners, especially
at breakfast, when sleep still sits on shoulders
slumped forward over plates of eggs and hash
browns, steam rising from cups of tea and coffee
like sleepers’ breath. There’s not much talking, just
the rustle of the morning paper as the day
is opened up. Yawns are issued without
apology, and the waitress, with her small pad
and pencil, her hand touching your back as she
rounds the corner, is love arrived. No one
cares if you’re still wearing pajama bottoms
or haven’t bothered to shave. The slow munching,
the sound of forks and knives, the audible
inhalations of liquid: the words will come later.

Robert Rothman graduated from the University of California at Berkeley, undergraduate and graduate school (J. D.). He lives in Northern California, near extensive trails and open space, with the Pacific Ocean over the hill. His work has appeared or is forthcoming in Quiddity, The Alembic, Existere, Foliate Oak, Forge, Cold Mountain Review, Diverse Voices Quarterly, RiverSedge, Grey Sparrow, The Griffin, Mary: A Journal of New Writing, Pank Magazine, Wild Violet, Front Range Review, Write Room, Viral Cat, and the Meridian Anthology of Contemporary Poetry.