Home to hillbillies,
hipsters, and honest
blue-collar bus drivers,
the air is soaked with the smell
of grease. Walls are garbled
with grungy gear, trash and
tchotchkes from the world wide.
Ships' figureheads with meek maidens
tyrannize the tap, dimpled
demurely, breasts brazen and shining.
Flies fizzle around haystacks
of fries, quickly tossed from the kitchen.
In the hot haze of the air, the
scent of smoke lingers:
sign of a more luscious, liberating time.
