Prose: Bohemian Dinner for One


I walk around my empty and pretty downtown, full of hope yet empty of dreams on city sidewalks. I slip into comforting, delicious Italian restaurant. Dinner for one. Some special recommended by thin-hipped and pleasant waitress, as I sit in far back corner, reflecting.

I’m some an intelligent thug Bohemian, wandering my post-industrial Rustbelt faded glory old town, full of ghosts and pride and stone and stains. Aimlessly drifting around the places I always know, even sleepwalking. Knowing so familiar each crack in the pavement, each spray-painted tag down hidden alleyway, each little piece of anything that stirs up a memory.

On the edge of dreams I’ve ridden my fortunes, there and back again, but always returning to safety of familiarity. Yet, the changing landscape of empty storefronts stare blankly back at me, whispering the remembrances of faded triumph, now gone and hidden behind dusty windowpanes.
Hope still lives here, somewhere between the old landmarks and few new ventures. I sit on my Main Street, hulking steel bridge looming about us all, as I bask in dim glow of delicious aromas of cuisine that I await. New place to sup created from nothingness on main drag, becoming someone’s successful new venture.

We are not the end product of downtrodden times. We are at the edge of the great restart that is waiting for the button to be pushed. I’m just a thinker, a writer, a seer, witness, opinionated, and extroverted in my loneliness from restaurant corner table, waiting for a meal, hoping for a dream to begin.


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