regular

half past seven and he’s here

  (everybody says seven-thirty

     around here but there’s

     something about him that

     makes you say half past seven.)

he’s here for a plate of meat and potatoes,

but never the two should meet unless in the

depths of his gizzard where bourbon and

bitters wash freely.

every day. half past seven.

every day meat

  (even on fridays but i’ve never

     asked him if he’s a heretic)

and potatoes.

no chef’s specials. no

chocolate pie. no pasta salad.

no green beans.

his hair has thinned but he’s not crotchety.

we know what he likes and jamie

serves him after marty makes up the plate

in the back.