I wanted a counter to sit at
This poem dates back to 1997, when I had been living in the US for 2 years. I was feeling lost, and desperately wanted to belong. I’d gone to a local Farmer’s Market, which had a diner-style counter, and I tucked myself in for the duration. Armed with my ever-present notebook, I was listening intently as other patrons came and went around me. As they’d casually catch up on life with the waitress, they’d somehow slip in an order for their usual, in a shorthand exchange that was inaccessible and yet strangely beguiling to me.