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.