I Like My Eggs Over Queasy
This dirty little diner is the soul of the community.
Serving brackish coffee and dirty honey buns.
To moon-dusted customers on their morning run.
Location, location, location always trumps quality.
The place is packed with twitchy blue-collar rats.
The sniffling cook swaggers in with a greasy bandana.
Pops an egg's yellow cap with his long, dirty finger.
I know some of the patrons saw it, yet they linger.
As far as I can see,
the intestines of the ancient coffee machine
seem impossible to scrub and thoroughly clean.
The blue mooners don't seem to mind the grime or sweaty eggs.
All night and day they keep gurgling up from gutter and grate.
To slurp cuisine that may not wear an expiration date.
My turn, I place what I perceive to be the cleanest order.
A small glass of O.J. a humble bagel with cream cheese.
I slide coyly off to the side like an undercover spy.
With visions of dirty over-easy greasing my queasy mind.
I've seen more than enough horror and get cold feet.
Like a yellow-lipped roach, I scurry for the door.
Fleeing the blue moon with little guilt, without grime or grease.
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