Hamburger Joint Poem by Norm Rourke

It’s just a hamburger joint. Nothing special from the others: Onions mashed into meat patties. Cooking in their own grease. Fries on the side. A crowd of overalled workers. Laughing and talking and eating. The same crowd every day. Ketchup gushed onto fries. Large Cokes—not diet—washes down unchewed food. Finished, they leave as a herd. Coins tossed on a littered table tell what they thought of the service. Friendly jostling. Burps. Wadded bills pay checks. Doors slam. Trucks roar. The noontime rush leaves.