2 a.m. Drag Diner Café, PDX




Rails don’t run out of downtown into

Northeast at these late hours, at least

not until 5:30 am.

So we plant ourselves on a bench with

VIP access to the bathroom. An older waiter strolls to

our table not very excited by the sight that we’re here.

He’s seen this before.

Young Portland punk kids come in with no intention of

spending money on a meal.

And that’s exactly what we did.


I answered his dry gaze with,

“uh me? I’ll just have a cup of coffee please”.

Zena, whose hazel eyes burst with light, ordered

hash browns with gravy on the side for us to share:

the only vegan option on

the menu that I would happily accept eating.

And so it began, our night’s

countdown ‘til a foggy winter’s dawn.  


I wouldn’t have even known how to answer

the questions about my year living on the west coast,

that I knew would come when I

arrived back home. I couldn’t answer them because

my life felt like a series of lucid dreams.  

Millions of intimate moments like these,

sharing with Zena our desires and sore spots over

a plate of hash browns.


Where life is perfect just the way it is,

even with its jagged edges and clouded horizons.

The pieces of rudimentary time that

tied us together meant more to me than

any radical travel saga.

I lay out my body across the bench

just perpendicular to her.

We manage to carefully sip every drop of coffee in

the pot till we couldn’t draw out any more.




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