Pork Pie Hat

by Paul Marion

On a plain Wednesday,
Late in a winter that wasn’t rough,
In the city just waking up,
Slouched in a black raincoat
And tilted gray pork pie hat,
The hospital chief lifts a coffee mug
To his lips and George Washington teeth.
The diner is full of men who could be
Doctors, candlemakers, teachers, mechanics.
They burp and spread sports pages
Over toast crusts on yolk-smeared plates.
High school Girl Officers will show up later,
Four in a booth or a pair at the counter
Always open, the caboose car pulls eater:
Via the red rooftop neon sign glowing
Like an electric stove ring set to medium.