Tiny’s in Riverdale

Diner small talk is perfect
the waitress is an expert
in things she does not know

The climate offers comfort
60 tomorrow then snow on Tuesday
That’s to be expected, Rich replies

She doesn’t seem to notice
we are writing, Rich and I, in the silence
of a holiday weekend

On the table: chicken orzo, tea, a passing whiff
of whiskey interrupted by a Packers touchdown
oh it’s snowin there already ya see the snow

We’re in the Bronx, not Wisconsin
but this waitress could be from anywhere
she is sickly and sweet and might have been a mother

I say might have because she has visibly given up
on something as large as a child, disconnected
green bay yea that’s washington state right

We sip and scribble and feel like unattended children
as she steps out, short sleeves in the chill
not for a cigarette but for something that will kill her just as slow

When she returns, clinking, she has missed
an apple turnover, interception, nothing
she can’t shower off

Far Enough

Look far enough anywhere
and it just turns blue

You can believe in that
if nothing else

I don’t believe in anything
other than firsthand phenomena

I have no desire to be
more than a breeze

no yearning larger
than half an acre, all any man deserves

a small place in the futility
a walk in the clouds, angelic

and meaningless, just enough
to start a religion, I don’t believe

in anything, I say, as the naked blue
glares forever back at me

---

tristan franz is a writer from Brooklyn, NY. His poetry is driven by the power of place and the human need to explore. You can find his work in a variety of online publications, including Moko Magazine, The Ekphrastic Review and Abramelin.