It’s four in the morning.

If I walk down to the main road, I’ll see cars going somewhere,

maybe to the early shift at Huron Valley hospital or the Copper Mug bar,

where someone will be smoking on the front porch.

Once, a skinny guy with stringy gray hair tried to pick me up,

then glanced over and saw my husband, who waved.

Eating a Copper Mug burger is a two-handed job.

A half pound of beef slapped on a buttered bun.

Whenever I order the chili cheese fries, I think,

Fuck it. If I die tomorrow, I’ll have had that last bite.

There’s an old jukebox—

Patsy Cline, Buddy Holly, Richie Valens.

Outside, customers sit at wrought iron tables

under red umbrellas that overlook a parking lot

where pickups park near a batting cage

wedged between a CBD shop and the bar.

Guys go to the batting cage, smack the ball around,

then walk across the lot to smoke then eat.

I always ask for Tammy’s table.
Her hair is rock star blonde, thick with black roots.

A dreamcatcher is inked from her shoulder to wrist.

I ask if I can touch it.

She smiles and holds her arm out.

I’m surprised how smooth it feels.

Tammy moves fast, taking orders,

standing over a hot grill.

Her ankles rise from her scuffed shoes,

like yeast dough left too long.

Tammy says her oldest gets the other three ready for school.

Ava’s 13, I don’t know what I’d do without her.

It’s four in the morning. Tammy’s scraping the grill clean.