In her notes (she made detailed
notes on all his paintings), Jo
describes the waiter inside the counter
as young and good-looking; I see him
as old, holding on to what
he found during the Depression.
(Which only goes to show … )
In either case he’s looking up, beginning
to straighten. (There must be one other person,
in back, the dishwasher?)
“She won’t let him use other models,” says
the girl in red. “So I look like her.”
She reflects, her features like well-applied
but fading makeup. “Bitch,” she says.
“On the other hand,” (thus the waiter) “she wanted
to paint.” The guy next to her glances
at him, sees no threat.
He’s tired, though the war
has only just begun. (First sketched before
Pearl Harbor; Jo got the title, initially singular,
from his beak.) “What gets me,” he says,
“is that he was a lifelong Republican.
You could laugh.” The irony goes where
the coffee does, tastes the same.
He too has drawn certain conclusions
from the era, now wonders how he
may serve. Third customer says nothing.
Face unimaginable, even to
the Hawk. Task now is to defeat
fascism; won’t always be. At least,
he thinks, he needn’t worry about
revolution in one diner.