Coffee Shop Gallup

When I was a teenager 
diners were my safe haven— 
many lonely folks sat there,
holding newspapers, folded 
in front of their shaded sunglasses.

Something homey about those places— 
torn vinyl settees and spinning stools,
stuffing gushing out of tears. 
On the walls, stories lurked
with the always-running jukebox hum— 
each song a memory of years bygone.

Laminated menus— 
meatball Monday’s, Sunday’s stew,
and cherry pie which never ran out.

They nursed their brown-water joe
those truckers, refills arrived 
before being asked—waitresses
called everyone ‘hon.’
Butter cubes melted into toast 
beside scrambled eggs and hash browns,
as the outside world in four lanes, rushed by.

Inside, time slowed down.
Lovers cuddled
in the cozy booths
and kissed near
the dumpster in the back,
as workers puffed 
their Marlboro’s
awaiting their shift’s end
that turned into 
another day of the same.

---

By Diana Raab. Published in Poetose September 2026.