Mommy and Me

Based off I dream I had once.

Sitting at the diner booth,
Mommy and me.
The menus are open to the right page.
The booster seat is brown and antiqued.
Tammie with an “e” bring the drinks.
Her nicotine-coated figures knock over a glass,
and water spills on the tabletop.


She pulls my El Camino out of her purse,
Mommy and me.
My car is metallic with plastic wheels.
I drive it up and down the mountainous ruby seats.
Across the pond of H2O.
Into the valley of salad plates.

The food lands in front of us,
Mommy and me.
The walls are etched with teenage love
while the floors are scuffed by
resistant children feet.
A fry jumps into my mouth.

We both listen to the sound of the clock,
Mommy and me.
My tiny blue eyes dart everywhere.
The neon signs, the fish tank, the chef's window.
“Eat you food” Her voice echoes.
Looking down, I put another fry into my mouth.

For both of us,
Mommy and me.