-At "Joe’s Slo-Burger"-

Ordering from the diner's menu
I'll choose the Number 1,—

The "Burger n' Fries Combo Plate."

Biding my time at the counter,

It's Neptune on my mind as the late-night's

Planet of choice.

A wet, heavy snow is falling

In mid December

But the diner's a pressure-cooker,
Sweltering and crowded.

The late-night compliment
Of besieged waitresses
Negotiate the din of madness
Weaving between the density
Of the barroom's recently evacuated,

The recovering stumblebums,
The elder regulars
Ordering their "usuals" as if presenting
A badge of distinction, the tightly-packed
Waiting-line of the hopeful at the entrance
With nowhere to go, unceremoniously ignored
And the gloating, self-absorbed occupiers of rare booths,–– the scent
Of burning meat coalescing with the stench of slush dissolving
On human hair...

Neptune's an ice-giant

And nobody lives there.

But what a beauty it is!

Say the name Neptune

As you romance the sight of it.

Joe knows how I like ‘em —

Burned-up, outside and inside,

But not my planets.

I want my planets cold, distant and mysterious.

Tonight I'll drop into Neptune,

Poke around its frozen breath of methane,

Laced with ammonia, its strike of atmosphere

Formed of more toxicities than mere hydrogen;

Scary sounding names written in cloaks of code

From the  university's laboratory. 

But the slab-of-a-puck Joe’s flipping at the grill

Sizzles like Mercury.

Neptune’s hard-hearted;

Masked in seduction, it’ll stick
Its tongue of acids into your throat

Soon as look at you.

Drop a coin to hear the juke drone Waits:

"Burgers n’ fries and what kind of pies?"

It’s Powder-blue.

Better stay away.

Burn that baby down, Joe!—  "Myrtle! You're up"!