Old Man At the Diner

Old Man At The Diner He slaughters his hamburger steak with a fork and a butter knife, massacres ringlets of onions again and again thumps catsup all over the bloody commingling, then ever so slowly peppers and salts and reminds me of Hrebic, whose wife, back on the block of my youth, sat all summer out on her stoop, knees awry, one eye black, the other turning gray, sunning the great white hydrants of her phlebitic legs. Donal Mahoney