At the Curtis Café in Stafford, Kansas

When I die, I will rise in a small town diner

with a seat that faces the Main Street window,

and all of the silverware and waterglasses and tabletops

will shine with afternoon light, and I will know no one

who comes in through the front door and sits and eats.

We will all watch the street lamps illuminate

the uneven brick street and wait

for afternoon to pass on into evening, full of shadows

jagged and irregular, the street filling up

with darkness in the way coffee fills up a pale coffee cup.