THE MAN WHO SOLD SPACE
At the diner,
the pair of fried eggs you stare into
are the twin suns of your possible futures:
an example of indecision,
or your desire to have the best of two worlds
while staying still.
Once at a diner in White Plains
a man in a suit and tie, oiled hair,
came to my table to speak of other worlds,
of Area 51: the famous government secret
in Arizona, where UFOs are said land
with the frequency of birds wintering
in Tuscon. When he talks, his thoughts dart wildly
as if the only spaceships were in his head,
landing and taking, feeding
on whatever substance swirled
behind his shades. He gesticulates
with the salt shaker, with the sugar, guides
the catsup bottle like a rocket slowly through the air: props in
some galactic act, a fancy pitch cometing toward some absurd
proposition.
The newest diner I frequent, the Morning Star
with its ceiling high windows
gives you front row seats at three am
to the couples staggering by,
a panhandler flattening his face against the pane like a luckless
coin, as if
it were simply a matter of glass
between our worlds: a dual aquarium
where the viewer and the viewed
are equally exotic~
and like our friend selling so much space~
beyond reach.
-Ian Brand