At the Bedford Diner, PA
I don’t know
what scrapple is
I don’t want to know
what scrapple is
however many years
it’s taking off my life
I’m gaining in delight
the waitress seems
to think I’d want syrup
syrup on scrapple?
is she messing with me?
is she testing my mettle?
I eat my scrapple plain
I’m for simple pleasures
there’s a note on the window
on the window that reads
“CALL Mike when we
have fried oysters again”
can you believe it?
on the same menu,
fried oysters and scrapple!
2 thoughts on "At the Bedford Diner, PA"
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Unbelievable! Great poem?
writing is looking for
the little things that make the big things
…you do it so well