Once this would have been a greasy spoon:
there would have been gum-chewing waitresses
loveable-grumpy fat man cook in a splattered apron
One of those rolling things to clip orders on that don’t have a name…
the aroma of french fries
links what it is now
to what it would have been in a past life.
This franchised dive
with teen agers running to and fro to before luke warm meals turn cold
The cook is a mystery we never see him.
the manager harried, wondering about a career change.
The foods’ names and menu pictures
make a promise that the real deal
won’t deliver on.
There is a mirrored wall to combat the claustrophobic intrusion of too many tables
And I like what my ten year old son says about it,
“Wouldn’t it be cool
if that mirror wasn’t showing us?
I think it must be a mirror
into some alternate dismention
where we’re all evil.”
I consider this thought for a moment.
and then I notice something.
If he’s right.
If that’s a mirror, not a window…
our villanous doppleganger
they seem to look like we look
do what we do.
You can’t tell us and them apart.