A waitress said,
Black coffee. Eggs over easy.

And this was late
in her shift, her voice tired,
frayed around the edges.

But what she said hung sparkling
in the air, so masterful

as to be worth a whole novel
by John Dos Passos
or a dozen photos by Dorothea Lange
or even a Hopper, maybe

Morning Sun, her words somehow
containing both the light and the sadness
of a small town waking up
in the distance, without you.