At America’s Diner

I asked for her true name.

“I have had many names:

Enzo, Ouroboros, Infiniti;

but respond to only one

that has no earthly tongue,”

she hissed to me

over stale coffee,

sourdough and spoiled eggs,

served sunny-side down

with flakes from a fluorine sign.

I asked for her true name.

Instead I was

lead while idle

past fields

of circus tents,

the door to each open

wider than the last.

Furthur through

rows of slot machines,

ringing, promising freedom

as gleaming nuggets

of temptation. I sat

in a line to a que

for an interview where

I asked for her true name.

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