I miss Bob’s. I miss Jim working the grill
and June with the menu and even J.C. with
the clean-up rag. I miss the swiss cheese
omelet and the bacon
on the side. I miss home
fries. I miss the terrible
coffee. I miss the tinny radio
tuned to the all-Christmas-song station from October
to March. I miss the faded Hot Chili
sign and the milkshake machine. I miss its hum.
Its whirr. I miss the sizzle
of your own sweet peppers
and onions. I miss your sour
pickle. I miss your rye
toast dipped in gooey egg
yolk. Dripping in your beard. But mostly I miss
you. There’s a two to a booth minimum
at peak business hours. I don’t want
to sit at the counter