There are three things wrong with this place—
The Pasta Palace.
First: there ain’t no pasta. I only see
bags of chips and pretzels behind the bar—
and not even any pickled eggs.
Second: it certainly ain’t no ‘Palace.’
the cracked vinyl on the stools might even
classify it as a dive.
Third: the sign out there’s a big lit-up
jack of clubs. I don’t see no joker-poker
machines hiding in the corner.
But that’s okay; I don’t need any linguini
or luxury or luck but I would like to be sitting
in a joint that’s as advertised—and what if
I were one of those people who would just
walk out when they found the contents didn’t
match the cover? For the owner’s sake,
he should update his sign to reflect
the downgrade, depict the dump—might lose
a little at first—but the good word will spread:
what you see is what you get—truth’s gotta be worth
something—like a Saturday night crowd
when it’s only Tuesday afternoon.