The Copper Grill

“Credit Crunch, Banks Collapse”

in a grubby newspaper, spread out across a sticky table, the headline bleeds out, the ink fused forever with smears of butter from oily ketchup fingers. coffee-stained patches, and dog-eared corners are folded back. whole chunks ripped out from the classifieds on Page 33, the desperate poetry of a dying town — used cars and escort services.

great big mugs of tea steam like locomotives under the fluorescent hum, hand-rolled cigarettes glowing between stained fingers. customers perch on those red leatherette seats bolted to short, shiny stainless-steel stalks, the whole counter base scuffed raw and shining from generations of swinging boots and restless legs kicking out the cold.

and the breakfast special arrives, dodgy eggs trembling on the plate, alive with a pale, slimy jelly that quivers under the fork like some uncertain jazz solo, barely holding its shape in the greasy morning light.

still, it’s a quality place in its own busted way: unlimited coffee flowing thick as tar, black and bitter and bottomless, our warm, flickering haven against the raw bite of winter mornings, where the world’s collapse feels just a little further away.

bottomless coffee,
and the banks going under —
last winter it closed.