The diner had never been white.
Since the nearest road
was Whitehouse, people referred
to it by that name, 'Diner' being
too impersonal. When fire
broke out, ashes of trees
lay everywhere. Although
it suffered severe damage,
The Whitehouse Diner
still stands. Who knows?
A diner-lover may travel
to town, fall in love
and restore it to
its former glory.
I am a freelance poet, born and bred in Brooklyn, New York. I live with my husband, John, and two charming rescue dogs–Marion Miller and Murphy. We spent eight lovely years in Portland, OR, but are now back in New York.
My goal is to create and share poetry with others
who write, or simply enjoy reading poetry. I hope to touch a nerve
in you, and feel your sparks as well.