At Home in a Glass Spacecraft

Nights the place would glow
white like a glass spacecraft
with every interior light
turned on while landing
in the Mohave at midnight.
And she was there
in pink uniform, pen and pad
in front pocket, pot of coffee
in hand, and interest in her eyes.

An all-night diner isn’t home
not the type of home most understand
but a feeling of escaping
into a non-reality of being
someone of interest and of value.
She would ask more? Then pour.
I would nod and sip. Brown
and blue would meet
above the counter while the blues

blasted from the corner. Some rich
guy who could afford a quarter
to feed the jukebox. Refills free
for me. I came back every night
until she graduated college with her
art degree and I graduated to a drink
stronger than black coffee.

W. Barrett Munn is a poet who lives in Tulsa, Oklahoma. His poems have been published in The Awakenings Review, San Antonio Review, Sequoia Speaks, Book of Matches, Kairos Literary Review, and many others. He is a graduate of The Institute of Children’s Literature.