The night before I got married,
there was a diner.
It was across the street from the motel
where we were staying –
where I was staying,
and my friends, and a few various
of my family,
and the night after wedding happened, the plan was
we’d pretty much all be staying there,
including my wife (-to-be) and I.
It had a neon sign, this diner,
I think it said, “Diner”, as neon diner signs
tend to do.
Maybe it was red.
Inside was plenty of chrome, and the ageless cakes
in that spinning-case thing they always have,
and booths, and chairs that swivel.
And the night before I got married,
myself and Claire and Dave,
my brother Phil, actually all my brothers
I’m pretty sure, and Alex I know,
and Munish, and others, a few of us, anyway,
we went to that diner,
walked across the parking lot, from the motel,
past the neon sign,
and proceeded to order
four bottles of wine
and a small fruit salad.
I believe it had a couple slices of melon in it.
We may have ordered some eggs later, I dimly recall.
I know we had more wine.
And we played cards, one game or another,
and talked about nothing, mostly.
The day after that night, my (now-) wife and I
got married, in a historic home, not too far from the motel.
We’ve got lots of photos.
It was great.
But I still remember the night before,
the night at the diner,
And what I mostly remember about it
was that it was a good night.
I’ve always liked diner food.