the deepening ground

For over seven years, my friend and fellow writer, James, and I have met every few weeks at our local Dunkin’ to carve out an hour and a half of dedicated time to write. Admittedly, it’s not the most conducive atmosphere for creativity, but beggars can’t be choosers. I’d much rather have a local pub to frequent, a Cheers-of-sorts, “where everybody knows my name” and where I can take my usual place in some warmly lit corner with a pint of stout while I let my creative imaginations run wild.

Instead, I get a cheap coffee and a maple creme doughnut “in this modern Mecca / for those on the run.” But we’re not running. We’re sitting. We’re slowing down… And we’re writing. And though it is no Eagle and Child, much of what I’ve penned and published on The Deepening Ground started here at the Dunkin’ at Broad and Main in Grove City, PA.

Don’t wait for the perfect place and time to emerge for you. As Elizabeth Barrett Browning wrote in Aurora Lee:

“Earth’s crammed with heaven,
And every common bush afire with God,
But only he who sees takes off his shoes”

Dunkinspiration
by Vincent H. Anastasi 2026

Dunkin’ is essentially deserted;
only James and I people the lobby
where the brown tiled floors
show salty footprints of customers
come and gone. We sip large coffees,
eat a single doughnut each, and force
a hard stop on the day for an hour
and a half once a fortnight.

I doubt the Inklings would find
inspiration in this modern Mecca
for those on the run: the cream
and mocha palette, the aura
of artificial flavors, the redundant
noise that passes as music.
In this small college town
where everything closes at five,
we struggle against a multitude
of distractions to rouse the muse.

Admittedly, I’d much prefer an
English pub tucked away in some
quaint village where I would be
a regular, where any deviation
from my usual order would raise
eyebrows and call forth questions
about my health, where it’s okay
to wile away the hours
in conversation and never really
put pen to page (or fingers to keys),
where a shared drink is poetry
and a shared meal prose.

And yet, imperfect as it is, the fact
that I am known by first name
at the local pizza shop, where I joke
that they should have a button to press
whenever I place my weekly order,
the fact that my current and former
students wait on me at restaurants
and coffee shops, the fact that I’ve
taught in the same building for
twenty-five years is a fairy-tale of sorts,
and a cheap butter pecan coffee and
maple cream doughnut every other Thursday
night is a wardrobe, a hole in the ground,
or some enchanted woods yet to be explored.

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