Sunday, November 12, 2017

Ode to the Diner



My parents taught me eating out was something that the rich
Could do with all impunity, but WE weren’t of that stitch.
Leftovers and brown bags haunted me throughout my years.
A diner was a den of thieves; they might pin back your ears!

And then one day, when cooking my own grub was too much work,
I went around the corner where a joint was known to lurk.
Chromium and plate glass, with formica spic and span,
The place looked halfway decent; they had copper pots and pan.

I ordered eggs and bacon, with a side of country fries,
And when the waitress brought it just imagine my surprise
To find it better than the drek my parents fed to me --
A gift for one who up till then lived on Chef Boyardee.

Now I am a diner fiend; I search them out to try
Their onions rings and patty melts and all things that will fry.
The waitresses are friendly and the cooks know me by name --

A diner lets you eat and your humanity reclaim.




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