Detroit, One A.M.
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Slabs of steel for luxury
cars are piled neatly behind
this 1950s diner, like the ones
their fathers took them to, years ago,
after picking them up from school.
The young men remember the time
as a gloaming in the distance of history.
Blacks work here now
under the cold brilliance
of fluorescent lights hanging
above the counter,
while the customers—big like their fathers—
stuff their faces with sandwiches.

Pairs of Japanese girls
pass through the doors, land
smoothly on the bar stools—
sit up straight as rooks,
shaking the slight chill
of a Detroit autumn from their hair.
They smile like the blonde girls
from the play they've just seen,
the pained look
of their faces in compact
mirrors reminding them
of their alien sex.

The men already have that beaten down
look of divorce, smiling
because they must appear
normal and unattached
if it's going to work this time.
They can make it different
if only they learn
how they can shine brighter
than the punishing lights.