The Hartford Diner
along the white river,
on black ribbons of road
surrounded by treed ridges
and wet streams,
I made a date to meet you
on highway 100.
After a generation
the doors were gone,
and the windows were hung with tattered plastic,
and the tables of peeling Formica
were piled like so much of the 70's
in heaps like rat droppings under a stove;
when we returned,
the river still ran virile at the base of the hill,
and the road still raced North
and the trees were still green.
I said to you,
"Look! It's the Hartford Diner."