the nonexistent dive bar

she wanted to meet

at

dive bars.

a strange sort of virtue

signaling,

i suppose.

no chain restaurants for her.

no la dee da

French cuisine,

or Italian delicacies.

No five star joints,

no Michelin rated places

with white

tablecloths.

the further you

drove,

the better,

down 

hills and valleys

through crushing rain,

anyplace

up a mountain

where the accents changed

and there was less dental

hygiene.

anywhere off the map

was fine

with her.

whereas a tuna sandwich

in the car

was fine with me.

or at the kitchen table with

eggs and bacon.