The Copper Grill

credit crunch, banks collapse.

the headline bleeds out in a grubby newspaper spread across a sticky table. the ink fused with smears of butter from oily ketchup fingers. coffee stains the edges. chunks ripped from the classifieds, page thirty-three. used cars. escort services.

mugs of tea steam under the light.

hand-rolled cigarettes glow between stained fingers.

customers perch on red leather seats. the counter base is scuffed from generations of swinging boots, the formica damaged, rusty metal bars at the feet.

the breakfast special. eggs tremble on the plate. a pale, slimy jelly quivers under the fork, barely holding its shape. unlimited coffee flows thick as tar. black and bottomless.

a place to sit out the winter morning.

before the freeze locks the streets in brown slush and engine grease.

free refills. steam. smoke.
the banks going under.
last winter it closed.