My father hates this place.
but
the pink and the blue and the silver reminds me of the 80s
not the real 80s
which
I imagine were no better than the times I write
but
the 80s depicted in the movies and tv shows that make me want to shop at thrift stores
the plates that echo bells accompanied by a chorus of drunken, high, sober sullen shouts
of
musically drowned bit bite banter
reminds me of the 80s
reminds me of a time when writing was hot shit
reminds me of a time when talking was more than walking and not all at once
the bacon is always cooked fresh here
yet
my father hates it
I told him I'd never return
but
the waitress is here bringing hot coffee and I can hear the chef clanking knives and I can smell the pancakes hitting the table beside me
and
it reminds me of the 80s
I wouldn't have listened to my father in the 80s
I would have danced the streets with colored eyes and hair and cloth and music would have sprung from my mouth
I would have been in a diner like the one I write
I would order the bacon, pancakes, and ask for syrup lite
