My arrow origami is pointing down to a poem I’m working on.
What could be finer
than writing in a cozy diner?
The cold wind winds
itself around matter.
I can’t hear the wind.
The music blares
while
dishes clang in the kitchen.
If there were no eggs
would we still have diners?
What kind of eggs?
All eggs.
There would be no life,
but worse
maybe no more diners.
Only neogenic anovians.