As It Is on Earth

The scent of gathering dusk,
of midnight hollowed out
and made lush again by dawn,
a sweetness I imagine
descends somewhere else
at the end of my shift, after
a certain hour minding the till
when anyone who knows knows
you keep your eye out there
where the only highway
runs past the diner’s place
on the board and brings us piles
of monopoly money traded
for grease and attention.
Our walls wear the faces
of celebrities no one remembers,
their signatures poofy
and pointless as meringue.
Tonight a hooptie with gold-
plated rims and a buttercream-
painted body pulls up
and parks like a question,
headlights aimed for the eyes.
Silhouettes exit all sides—men
still in uniform, the type who order
the same thing as each other,
these angels who make our roads,
who roam our kingdom,
come sit at the counter
wing to wing, hushed now
over their fries, lifting them
one by one like it’s the slowest
night in heaven, as it is on Earth.


Jean Theron is a poet and writer whose work has appeared in Yes! Magazine, Pressenza, and elsewhere. She works in farmland conservation and as an antiracism trainer and organizer.