As I digested thoughts of mug warts and nasty nettles
from the plastic vinyl and the lace curtains,
I turned the pages of the menu
as if they were time itself
hinting at bologna omelets, liver and onions,
even chipped beef.
There was a hum inside that was bright
with sunflowers, and children
slurping long worms of spaghetti.
I even saw a glass of laughter milkshake
blowing a straw paper that hit my heart,
but I didn't see a single fly.
Would you like a glass of cool? the waitress winked
and made another line on her face.
There was precious room for another
so smiled was her skin
and lubricated by bacon grease and the cubed butter
slathered creamy yellow onto pumpernickel, raisin
or a sourdough slice of fresh backed every day bread.
Did I really settle for tuna fish and french fries, even a coke,
when I could have had a butter-battered blueberry delectable?
My senses were caught in the plates that passed,
breathing dumplings and real maple syrup.
I couldn't tell you what I ate
but I know that I was full
and as I drove away I found
tucked into the neck of my best dress
a napkin where I'd written these words.
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