Diner Dinner

Missing the Southwest
customs that trained my pallet,
I travel my fork

around "meat and three"
at a diner. Drained of hope,
I form meat hypotheses

staring at my plate
and decide ignoring "meat"
might save my stomach.

Bored with side dishes,
I dissolve into lessons
well-learned living in

Texas: grilling steaks
in marinade puddles
taught me to taste flesh:

I sizzled briskets,
detonating charcoal clumps
with dripping juices,

anticipating
my teeth melting deep and slow
in earthy flavor;

tongue stuck collapsing
over booming tender chunks
of Mexican steer,

my grandpa nodding
behind me, sipping tallboys
between tossing tips

his grandfather knew,
and failing to hide his pride
feigning disinterest.

Ripped back into now,
a waitress asks if I'm done.
I kindly say, "No,"

securing my plate,
still thick with food I won't eat,
next to my water,

"but you could bring me
a refill and a coffee.
I might stay a while."