David Welch Poet Rhyme

Ode To A Grecian Urn

The simple porcelain of a coffee cup
upon a saucer, minimal and clean,
a long counter for those who wish to sup
and not take fables from the families;
the waitress zones in when your drink runs dry,
with black liquid more precious than dark crude,
the orders up entice the hungry eye,
and this place is well-known for their French fries.

The owner is a legal immigrant,
he always is out front in shirt and tie,
presses the flesh with any who come in,
comes across as an exuberant guy.
The food always comes before you expect,
these cooks are fast (and covered in tattoos),
on weekend morns the pace seems near breakneck,
dervish servers swirl from one booth to the next.

Each year they sponsor a little league team,
the kids pictures mounted proud on the wall,
near the specials, which on the white-board gleams,
today it’s a pancake stack, extra tall;
when church gets out the business will quicken,
the priest himself is known to frequent here,
a social spot for all the praying men,
though football is the faith for some of them.

The food is good for the price they offer
(But not as cheap as what it used to be!).
They get eggs right, which some clerks never learn,
sell baklava, since the owner is Greek.
I think all towns need at least one such place
to qualify as a real town at all,
with no diner why would the people stay?
It brings something that no chain can replace.

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