Sirloin sizzled on the skillet,
shrinking as customers queued under a blue tarpaulin,
the monsoon now ramping up to its full, bullying extent.
Jenny clacked the tongs
like a lobster, wiping sweat from her plastered brow,
everything wet and hot now,
rain fizzing like static,
the smell of burning fat
and the clatter of coins in the tin.
She turns the steaks
like someone waking a sleeper.
Still, the storm draws in.
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