Maybe You Should Not Eat There

We had to go to that other city.
The one south of here.
One hundred miles south.

We had to do a few things.
Take care of a little business.
Personal business.

Then we had to eat lunch.
We were real hungry.
We stopped at that old place.

Been there since 1948.
Started as a fruitstand.
Painted red, white and green.

We parked in front.
Big parking lot in back.
Parking on the side too.

We sat at the table by the window.
Red and white checked table cloth.
Carafes of ice tea on each table.

Movie fotos on the walls.
Family fotos on the walls.
Capone in his hat.

It was Tuesday.
Linguini with buttery clam sauce.
Minnestrone soup, a salad and bread.

No little bowls of black vinegar.
No little bowls of olive oil.
This ain't that kind of place.

A big guy walks in.
No neck and yellow eyes.
Takes a table near the kitchen.

Talks with the cook.
Yells at somebody on his cell phone.
Gives me the evil eye.

Looks at a list on his yellow legal pad.
Names and numbers.
Makes more calls.

We finish our bowls of pasta.
He finishes his bowl of pasta.
Everybody feeling better.

Spumoni ice cream for dessert.
Chat with the waitress.
Pay the check and leave a tip.

Walk out of the place.
His eyes follow us out.
We nod at each other.

He was an earner.
Doing his job.
Taking a lunch break.

We had to do a few things.
Take care of a little business.
Personal business.