Diner Dinner (a revision)

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

around "meat and three"
at a diner. Drained of hope,
I guess at the meat

chucked across my plate
and decide ignoring it
might save my stomach.

Boring side dishes
dissolve me into lessons
well-learned living in

Texas: grilling steaks
out of marinade puddles
taught me to taste flesh:

I sizzled briskets,
detonating charcoal clumps
with dripping juices,

anticipating
painting my mouth with blood, sauce,
and earthy flavor;

tongue rolling slowly
over booming tender chunks
of Mexican steer,

my grandpa nodding
behind me, sipping tallboys
and teaching me tricks

his grandfather knew,
failing to hide ancient pride
behind disinterest.

Breaking my flashback,
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."