But I always had a bit of an authenticity complex,
plus, D the waitress whispers, that’s not real Brown’s.
and when my town has built an empiric tourism industry
around “authenticity”—something they stole to begin with—
it’s hard to smell the stakes through mouthfuls of fake blood.
Even Brown’s changed ownership recently and began renovation.

I do wish to do better for my body, for every
body, to do right by every chestnut-spotted hide,
to behold it quivering over muscle, not printed
on synthetic leather into a bedazzled cowpokery.
Legend has it Nanci Griffith used to bring her own
shrimp for the spitfire to fry on the grill just for her.
All that singing about finding love at the five and dime, but
she knew sometimes you’ve got to arrive with an agenda.

Part of me wishes to keep this all a delicious secret, but also
to keep the place in business—watch a gaggle of bachelorettes
tip the band, fall for D. When she brings burgers to their table,
she uses her pointer to caress each colorful plastic flag
and emphatically whispers toothpick! almost always
repeats how she’s seen one too many accidents.

How many beans can a transplant spill about a hole-in-wall
before that wall gets knocked down, paved over,
its regulars unable to get a stool? But hey, not here, not
yet. The new owners seem to have preservation in mind,
shoring up the ceiling so it doesn’t cave in, plus a nice
new patio. The other day, on one of the fresh cut benches
a child scooted himself right into a splinter, promptly after
a slew of ants had discovered his ketchup spill, their
wriggling red bodies almost uncannily close to camouflage,
nearly launching a parade float onto a french fry.

The more time I spend in this town, the more I understand
someone’s parade is usually someone else’s sticky mess.
Of all my wishes for Brown’s, I mostly wish to roll out
the red carpet for each ant we’ll later squash unknowingly—
we’ll never know what the hell we’re doing here
nearly as well as the ants seem to—
their only agenda? Community and labor
married into one marching movement.
Just the thought all that work and I’m tired, so hungry—
and you know what sounds really good?

“After 96 Years of Business, Brown’s Diner Begins Serving Impossible Burgers” is an excerpt from Lou Turner’s debut poetry collection, Twin Lead Lines (Third Man Books, 2025).

Lou Turner is a writer and musician based in Nashville, Tennessee. She holds an MFA in poetry from Randolph College and is the author of the chapbook Shape Note Singing and her debut poetry collection, Twin Lead Lines. Turner is the editor of Quarter Notes, a lit mag with a musical ear.

Header image: Brown’s Diner, Nashville, Tennessee, March 21, 2008, by Brent Moore. Flickr.com, CC BY-NC 2.0.