Empire Diner

WILLIAM DORESKI

In the gloss of stainless steel
we fondle menus and consider
what color wine will flatter
your grape-colored eyes. Neither

red nor white but something tawny,
richer than plonk, riper than brandy,
something to meld the classic
architecture of the diner

with your post-industrial gaze.
The diner’s too chic to last.
In ten years it’ll disappear,
scorching another raw spot

into Manhattan, which suffers
its open wounds in silence.
But now the menus flutter
like fledglings; and the wine list,

although it doesn’t name you,
consigns itself to the memory
of your Art Deco expression,
flattering to self and other.