“Friday Night at the West Fork”

by William Greenway

You know it’s gonna be grub when the couple
coming out as you go in are big as sumo, and carry
enough take-home styrofoam to melt and mold
another one. With paper towel napkins, a peanut
shell floor, and every tattoo, biker belt buckle,
bra and wife-beater shoulder strap in northeast
Ohio on show, we badly need a little class,
maybe a sniffy crayon sonnet on the brown,
butcher-paper tablecloth with a turn
at the ninth line, probably of the stomach
since the road that’s usually not taken
this time is: a primrose path of thin “prime” rib,
doll buckets of sour-cream and I-Can’t Believe-
It’s-Not-Butter stuffed spuds in a dirge
for another dumb diet, and the work-week, too,
dead and needs buried at sea in watery beer
that’s just a dollar a glass.

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