Closed Mondays

Twelve tables, two booths,
staff of three:
           Frank on the grill
           Merla waiting table
           Mrs. on the register.

  Weekends the wait
     is an hour or more
       but early

         get in

               Frank hovers over 
               the smoking flat-top
               like a symphony conductor

              each order taking up its little area

     a big wedge of hashbrowns
     down one edge
     perpetually replenished

                          bacon and sausage cooking
                                in the side broiler.

Merla glides through
        like an ice skater
                pitcher of water
            and pot of coffee
       in perpetual motion,
plates stacked across her arm.

                                  Mrs sits watching
                                                  like a chickenhawk. 


Friday Fictioneers

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