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.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem