eat at moe's

there's a swordfish above the bar,
shiny, silver and blue,
with bacon grease
and scrapple mist
making it glisten
from tail to fin.
ketchup and mustard, set
side by side are soldiered
on every table.
French's and Heinz.
salt and pepper too.
enormous wooden salad spoons,
forks and knives
are nailed
on the paneled wall.
not for customer use.
moe is in the back
with mrs. moe, he
with his white Nehru hat
and bloodied apron
frying liver
for Thursdays special.
the mrs. in her black
hair net
keeping the flames going
under each pot.
a pile of white
onions
spits in a small
haystack on the grill.
let's get a booth
I tell
my true love, betty,
as she pinches her nose
and squints.
no not that one,
the one
with the juke box,
near the curtained
windows. we both slide in
and rub our hands together.
the bell rings, an order
is up,
adam and eve on a raft,
with a side
order of jimmy dean pork links.
another bell rings,
angels must be
getting their wings, betty
laughs.
it's the front
glass door, billy
has just parked his tractor
trailer on the side
of the citgo station.
he stands by the bathroom door,
jiggling the locked
knob. occupied.
stamping his boots.
we hear a toilet flush
then out comes marge, our
waitress in pink, a pad
and pen in hand.
hi hon, she says. what'll
it be? liver and onions?
we pie too.
apple and cherry.