Late Lunch in Highland, Indiana

In Northwest Indiana,

they smash the burgers really thin

on the griddle,

which I imagine is blackened

with grease from 1972 and 1984 and 1991 and now.

Naturally it’s one of those faux ‘50s diners

with the black-and-white checkered tiled floor

and the white countertops and tables

and bright red barstools and booths.

They smash the burgers really thin

so that the edges,

which extend far outside the sesame-seed bun,

are charred and crispy.

The middle is juicy, though,

salty too,

blanketed with melted American cheese,

and the ketchup, mustard, lettuce, and onions

spill onto your plate or your t-shirt

when you take a bite.

They give you too many crisp yellow French fries

in a red plastic basket.

You order a Green River for old time’s sake.

Neon green bubbles rise to the top of the glass,

like the contents of a mad scientist’s test tube.

It is pleasantly lime-flavored

and not as overpowering as its color would suggest.

You shouldn’t eat the whole burger,

but of course you do,

and it sits, brick-like, in your belly,

and you feel like you won’t have to eat again for a week.

But you rummage through your refrigerator

a few hours later,

frowning at its contents,

as though you weren’t the one who put them in there.