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.
No comments:
Post a Comment