Why exactly do I feel
Connection with a time that is not my own?
Is it possible in this 60’s-esque diner
Of rockabillies and pompadours
That I know what I missed?
That this little Watson’s Pharmacy,
Stocked to the ceiling with phials
Replaced by new drugs served at the bar,
Makes me feel nostalgic for something
Of a shapeless dream?
These wood and red-brick ceilings –
A clever disguise of normalcy.
Tonics carefully labeled
But not at all accurate –
‘Long bleached walls, hanging orb lights,
Checkered floors, a candy bar;
Nothing like this
Could possibly have existed in the 60’s
Surely?
Yet, as I finish my burger
And await my apple pie
All alone on this uncomfortable stool,
I cannot help but not care for reservations
Since this spot is all my own, and I can think what ever I like of it.
If it was true to form, a real 60’s bar –
Welp, I might not return,
So better an ideal than a copy.
Morning's Early Dark 