"Nothing but the dead of night back in my little town . . ."
-- Paul Simon
�
I.
The all-embracing facility of humanity is manifest
As the Americans tuck into their steak and eggs
On a holiday morning blooming grayly into afternoon.
Waitresses flock about distributing coffee
And pleasantries. What is your pleasure?
What is your need? Warmth and certainty,
The known quantities of animal comforts
And punctual service? A smile, a warm regard, bought and paid for,
Asked and answered, expected
And offered to you, proud American, by the courteous staff
Of Denny�s. There is nothing gray or grainy or questionable
In the service; no grim reminder behind the slorp of coffee
My cup runneth over with, nothing wrong here
In the slightest. Still, if I listen hard, I can hear the creak
Of utilitarian ideals pushed too far: people with degrees are too smart
To eat at Denny�s.
What fresh hell is this? Am I allowed no more than scorn
For our third world waitress, thinking one language and speaking another,
The slacker kids in the next booth
Who learned their ethics from Eddie Vetter and their morals
From Alanis Morrissette? My God! Am I not allowed a moment of citizenship,
A sense of belonging? Am I the only American
In this half-assed imitation truck stop?
As if I hadn�t eaten with lesser spirits
Than these in my spotted career, in places more surly
And surreal. Can I not stretch my mind around
The incongruity of Americana? Can I not see that America
Is incongruous? Or is there any vision required of me
At all?
II.
Es muss sein.
Count the true things:
The gray cold outside is outside; here
There is warmth and food and prompt service. Beyond
The swelling sounds of interstate traffic, the scrub brush of the southern Piedmont,
South of the lake, North of the city, tucked safely away
Off Sunset Road.
Under the collective din
Of service, mastication, manipulation and digestion, I pick up the strains
Of 30-year-old wisdom, a patina of melodic
Regret: Es muss sein; something must be wrong here,
Very, very wrong here. Must be. This is not the land
Of my father, of my father�s father. This is not my land, this is not your land;
This is not Disneyland; this ain�t no Mud Club, no CBGB. This is no place
Of my choosing, this sustained nightmare, this Eden,
This Paradise on earth, this Denny�s.
Count the true things: the winter skies, the plastic signs,
The cold rain, the cold-rolled steel forks,
The coffee, regular and de-caf, all as real
As I am. Still. This place comes to me
As in a vision, an aura, yet it is above me, around me, under my feet.
How did this happen? Why am I here? Where are my eggs?
III.
Let me quiz you: When were you last?
Who are you this time? What was your name
At exit 5? At exit 14? Where have you been
All my life? All yours? Can you honestly say
Anything? Can I? These are the questions
Pancakes cannot answer, try as they might.
As a grain of sense works its way into my mind, chews into the soft tissue
Behind my eyes, suddenly I understand
The slacker couple speaking impossibly quietly to each other,
The Genius Waitress, hash-slinging her way to Freedom,
The impossibility of such a warm, greasy place
Having come from the seed of a cold, plastic corporate copulation .
Our Republic, one nation under the influence
Of coffee, eggs, toast and butter, warmth and commerce,
$6.50 an hour plus tips. There is nothing wrong here.
Here is good. Here there is warmth and food,
A clean, well-lighted place,
Shelter from the storm,
Sweet liberty,
Democracy.