Diner Tuna Melt Ghost

The smell,

a ghost of burnt oil,

blew from a grimy vent

outside the boarded-up diner.

It snagged me, right there,

by the faded 'For Lease' sign.

That tuna melt.

A specific yellow cheese,

grease pooling on the plate,

just so,

under the humming fluorescent tube

that made everything look a little sick.

It was a meal you couldn't replicate.

Couldn't make at home,

couldn't get in some fancy place.

It needed the cracked vinyl booths,

the waitress with the heavy sigh,

the faint, stale scent of cigarettes

from years ago.

A taste now trapped

behind plywood,

a memory of cheap comfort,

gone sour

like yesterday's coffee.