stuffed

There is a diner
with yellow stools
and yellow walls.
And it’s bright
and warm
and always sunny on that side of the street.
It’s where they go
to escape.
To run from the
darkness
of thoughts
and the way they never seem to do
exactly what they planned.
They drink coffee and forget
pain
and unrealized potential
dead uncles
and overbearing mothers
backstabbing friends
and dead-end jobs
money
and brokenness.

They eat pie
and stuff tears
deep inside temporarily satisfied bellies.

They lick the whipped cream off their spoon and sigh

They breathe differently there

fully

with gusto

and purpose

at the diner
with yellow walls.