Greasy Spoon

you know the place.
it’s that old dive
on the outskirts of town
that only locals frequent—
that old diner with the
faded checkerboard linoleum,
and the pest strip with
two dozen flies hanging on it.

it’s that type of place
you walk into,
expecting to hear,
“scorch a long one and
drag it through the garden,”
as you seat yourself
at the counter and
wait for your waitress.

after you order your burger,
you spin around on your stool
to have a good look around.
past the crude bumper stickers
and the couple making out
in the far corner,
you can almost see them—
the ghosts of decades past.