The twirling,
hypnotic fans
that encircle
red linoleum chairs
and the bunched,
fake gold buttons.
Ketchup bottles,
salt shakers,
are the dirty table trash
of the greasy spoon.
Next to me,
too close for comfort,
endless old man chatter.
What the hell are they talking about?
Their ideas are not our own
their way is hunting and fishing.
I look over and beyond
to no smoking signs,
and laugh,
as I start up cigarettes
and exhale puffs.
High in the ceiling-
track lighting with
plastic, hanging-tacky plants
for ambiance,
along with saloon glass
with old-fashioned lettering to frame.
Rustic water colors
and paintings of mills.
Bent cardboard-wood serves
as a separation
from cooks, stoves, bus boys-
and the secrets of the kitchen.
The spoon, a lighter, and a sense of humor
are the only things you need
in a dive.