In Willy’s closet I have seen close to twenty t-shirts with names of diner’s from LA to Massachusetts.
He will eat at any diner, then buy it’s shirt:
Willy’s eyes get big when he looks at the menu.
“What’ll it be?” asks the server.
Willy will be on the edge of his seat.
He can’t decide between two plates and asks the the server which THEY like better.
And he always agrees with what they say.
“YES! That’s What I Was Thinking!”
Willy eats like every bite is his last, and the last bite is the same as the first bite,
in size and portion.
He smiles before,
and after each bite.
Then leans back in his chair and rubs his hairy belly, eyes closed,
bloated and happy. Almost sleepy.
I eat like a guerilla eating a bag of chips with a spoon.
I got like that from hurried hiking.
And it’s in my blood to eat like women who eat like they’re never going to eat again.
Road Kill, Potatoes, and Greens with granny.
Lean Cuisines with Mom.
Cats and dogs and birds on the dining table. Or dead possum.
Farting and burping.
Burping made my granny happy, that means it was good.
Once Willy offered me a bite of his sandwich.
This, from the man who loves eating the most!
But I was on the phone, I wasn’t paying attention,
And took a bite the size of TEXAS!
Half the sandwich gone.
Some of it fell out of my mouth.
Shit gets everywhere.
On my shirt, on my pants, on the chair, on the floor, around my plate on the table, on the corners of my mouth, chin, hands, shoes, hair, down my shirt.
Into ear canals.
fart, burp, fart
Willy laughs and wipes food off my face.
After I’m done spooning my food, I watch Willy eat.
He eats slowly.
Gets all the food in his mouth.