The autumn chores are complete. Plants cut back. The
planting beds cleared of debris. Wood stacked by the back door. Container
plants we want to save brought inside. Each year we ask:how much longer can we do this? Each year we
move more slowly; the clean-up takes longer; we have more aches afterwards.
Knees, backs, shoulders–all complaining loudly. Each year we think about a
A street empty of people.Just the all night diner is open.Plain, devoid of sentimentality.A sickly greenish light streams through plate
glass windows.A man sits smoking, his eyes looking
straight ahead, expressionless.The woman with him appears more interested in a
matchbook cover than in his company.
A third customer, a man alone with his
back to us, his shoulders hunched.A
faceless man in a gray suit. Behind the counter, a young man in a
white uniform, a sharp contrast to the darkly dressed customers.He's busy with the dishes and appears to be
speaking. Perhaps to himself. No one seems to be listening.