We had copper-colored tin ceilings with pressed designs                   
    in our family’s restaurant.
Nothing fancy.  Remnants of early 20c. décor—                 
    practical and barely noticed 75 years ago.   

In a 21c small-town diner regulars stop tonight                 
    before closing. 
I watch a plump family of four slide into a booth—                 
    grandmother, child, parents,

take turns going to the restroom                 
    while a teenager scribbles their orders.
Two crisp middle-aged women enter
    before closing, 

pick up their orders and sit outside for privacy,                 
    intense conversation. 
A wiry woman walks in alone,
   dirty blue jeans hang off her skinny frame.

From the counter I hear her say,  “grilled ham                  
    and cheese sandwich.” Then “I have no money.”
An uncomfortable waitress hesitates                  
    just as a customer in work boots and baseball cap

at the counter slides a twenty toward the waitress.
    The hungry woman smiles and nods. 
This restaurant looks like it has greeted customers                 
    for 50 years or more. 

Young staff has no knowledge of the early years,                 
     when the locals gathered and everyone knew one another.
I stare at the tin ceiling in this restaurant, long                  
    for spaces filled with generosity, even for strangers.