Heart Stop Inn Poem by Alexander Beebe

I’m headed south from Cleveland
aiming toward the Georgia line.
Two weeks I’ll spend with
Aunt Lucille, my last surviving Southern tie.

Aunt Lucille is rather feisty, widowed now
for 20 years. She owns a restaurant called
The Heart Stop, named by her husband, my Uncle Bill.

The Heart Stop serves most anything that
you could desire-deep fried catfish,
chicken wings, homemade fudge and
turnip greens, milkshakes of a thousand
flavors, ribs and sausage, soups and taters.

The locals say the food’s to die for; a testament
to Uncle Bill. His picture hangs above the deep fry,
the place he stood for 15 years.

Other pictures can be found on the wall of fame,
a photographic testament of those who bare the name.
Coincidence Lucille will tell you, that they met their end,
while dinning at the feasting table at the Heart Stop Inn.

As for me, I’m now the owner of this Georgia
greasy spoon. My Aunt Lucille now hangs so
proudly above the deep fry next to Bill.

I tried to change the menu once and offer something new.
But locals didn’t like the Sushi, the tofu burger or the lintel soup.
So now it’s back to how it was, before I made
the change, except for three new pictures added
to the wall of fame.