it's a restaurant on
the main drag of town.
picnic tables covered in newspapers.
liters of vinegar,
ketchup, salt and pepper,
old bay,
trays of crabs, steamed
and hard in their red shells,
coming out from
the floppy doored kitchen
by the dozens.
it's a loud place.
everyone seems to be yelling.
the music. the large groups
of people, sunburned and
almost out of money on this
sunday night, heading home
on Monday.
the frenzy of food is
frightening. everything fried,
and hot. the waiters tired,
dragging in their shorts
and sweaty tops.
we shrug and say, okay. let's
eat. there has to be something
on the menu we like.
drinking helps.
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