the sunshine grill

it's a little place
where three roads
converge, out in
nowhere, the boonies,
the sticks, farmland.
even the clouds seem
lonely out here. but
there sits the sunshine
grill made of white
cinder blocks, a tin
roof with an heirloom
rooster on top,
sparsely painted,
the word ESSO in red
on one wall, still
there beneath the peel
and fading wash.
dead gas pumps
stand like ghostly
sentinels, without hoses
out front and in
the only window
sits a fat tabby
cat, licking her paws,
beside a pyramid
of oil cans.
but go inside, and
that's where you'll
find lee and marge
at the grill, below
the yellowed ceiling,
frying up the largest
burgers this side of
washington, dc.
no fries, no fountain
drink, just eggs
and bacon, pancakes,
sandwiches. and if you
need a fly swatter,
or a paint brush,
a loaf of bread, or
a can of beans, tobacoo,
or even earth worms,
it's on the shelf,
or in the icebox.
and they work, unsmiling,
but somewhat happy
and content. keeping
with the times in their
thin surgical gloves.
and if you ask politely
how long have you
been in business they
look at one another,
and shrug, i don't know
marge says, sixty years,
maybe, and lee nods as
he slides your burger
onto an oversized bun,
and says, ketchup?