51 Lincoln

butter your tins, they
once clucked; you, impish moppet,
would use lard instead

East Coast Grill

grits good enough for
the best britches among us
(no banana jokes)

The Gallows

i refuse to live
in a world where the answer
to poutine is no

Bintliff's American Cafe

lust, feasting upon
the morning after; pink flesh
goads, succumbs, endures

Kelly's Diner

if only we all
were soaked in cinnamon and
butter and mercy

Frank's Steak House

i am sixty-five;
townies do not give a damn
with each beefy chew

Tavern Law

lithe dancer, you are
green, wanton, casting
light against the darkest world

Voula's Offshore Cafe

the lingered beauty
as you burst like a dying
star, a crying child

Russell House Tavern

thyme-scented chicken
adrift; potato, butter
in parts one to one