He kept opening ketchup packets, booth, by now, littered
by floppy, stained packets spewed on both sides of
him, sandwiched between table & the straight, grease-laden
bench smeared crimson, a film of it on the napkin,
across the apex of his plate where the Saturn special resided:
abandoned spuds strangling in a ruby drenching of over-easies
splayed on flannel hash, mess of sausage, innards released from
their casing, buttermilk biscuit lapping what rimmed the edge.
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