-Columbus Park Requiem-

After the burial ceremony
We piled into "Chico" Johnson's '59 Ford
Fairlane 500 and went to Earnshaw’s.

The Diner was full but we waited.

An hour ago Albie's grandmother, Julia,
Wailed in grief at the grave
As the casket, strapped like a granite block
Was cranked into his hole of the earth.

“Albert! Don’t leave your mother!”

Such pale expressions draped in rare suits.

So we waited.
Some of us inside, standing

Where the cash register pinged for money,

The overflow in the crowded weatherway.

Nobody was driving drunk.

Nobody had a gun.

Nobody cracked under pressure.

It wasn’t a wild pitch.

He wasn’t brushed back.

Albie never crowded the plate.
Inshoot seemed to have a mind of its own

Fast on its way to the temple of his brain.

A middle booth
Separating the busy aisles
Opens up;
Is cleared of its tableware
And spare-change tips.

Shift-Hostess is leading the way.

She makes more money waiting tables

And she lets us know by her attitude.

Seven kids crowd in.

Seven wiseguys.

Seven ballplayers.
Breakfast is served all day.
But it’s the No.2,— the meatloaf plate
All around at the booth in the middle.
It was the meatloaf plate Albie always gravitated to
At Earnshaw's Diner.

                                        Quequechan