Lunch at a Truck Stop with Wallace Stevens
We are the mimics. Clouds are pedagogues.
A big but delicate man,
he doesn’t flirt with the waitress,
a comely gal in calico,
but orders brusquely:
meat loaf, mashed potatoes, sweet peas,
piping hot biscuits fresh from the oven.
The fluttering napkin looks small in his hand
as it parachutes upon his lap.
When the grub arrives, he bows his head,
Closes his eyes, and says,
“Tink a tank a tunk a tunk tunk.”
Opens those eyes, raises that head,
and smiles amid the clatter of saucers and cups.