At Henny Penny Diner

By Dave Seter

The regulars, some grizzled, some fresh-shaven,
hold down the counter with forearms, with elbows.
In between jokes, forks lift omelets and waffles.
The eggs are fresh, the jokes retold.
Even knowing the punchline the regulars laugh.

How do the waitstaff refrain from rolling their eyes?
Not just hungry for tips, they’re kind,
knowing we all travel the same road,
the crossroads cracked asphalt and erratic gravel,
the intersection occasionally flooding,
no joke, with backwash of the Petaluma River.
So much flow and nowhere for it to go.
The shrugged banks of the river don’t know what to say.

But we’ll be fine, the rooster statue out front seems to say,
standing guard day and night, shedding rain, shedding jokes
about this chicken town, while inside, the raincoats
are shrugged off shoulders—stay awhile—they seem to say.
The plates are full to the brim with omelets and waffles and—
take my advice—I’m becoming a regular—choose
the country potatoes, not the hash browns—I say—
elbows confidently planted on the counter.