Cantina?

the new coffee joint opened last week

called: “the Cantina”.

that was of interest to me so I travelled

west to Main then south to Plain Street

to get to “the Cantina”.

inside it looked like every other

coffee spot I’d ever known

absent “Carmella’s diner”

which has been seared to my fascination

for some 65 years.

"the Cantina” come to find out

was owned and operated by one: Fergal Leary

born of Irish parentage who had a place on

Oak Grove Avenue for all of Fergal's young life.

I held my disappointment in check and ordered

coffee at the counter, drank it, got a grilled

cheese with tomato on rye to travel, paid the tab,

left a sizable but disgruntled tip and beat it back

from whence I came.

vignette?

                    in response to an emergency

there’s a medical situation going on street-side

five stories below the balcony and emergency vehicles

are fast approaching from the south.

1.

inside, I turn-down the volume of Krzysztof Penderecki’s

“Threnody to the Victims of Hiroshima” out of respect, then 

2.

spoon 9-lives "chicken and liver feast" in a shallow dish

for the easily distracted cat, then

3.

give the counter a pine-scented wet-wipe

due to the acrid scent left behind from the canned

chicken and liver feast, then

4.

the elevator is a slow, lonesome ride down to the lobby.

finale:

it seems that I'm well prepared to deal with emergencies.

 

                   good humor

the ice cream truck

has a new jingle.

I hear it from the balcony.

this is throwing me off

my established equilibrium.

not that it’s a bad jingle.

It does its job by alerting

the kids to pester their parents

into enough money

to get out there and nab

the treat of the day.

not one kid seems bothered

by the new jingle.

all they know is the dripping

cones of chocolate and

the sunbursts of creamsicles

and the strawberry, vanilla,

raspberry swirl in a paper cup

with a little wood spoon sticking

out of it like the tongue Pinocchio

probably had hidden in his mouth.

the new jingle will take some

getting used to and I’m sure

I’ll get used to it in time,–– but

I think I’m going to miss a lot after I croak.

will Pluto dress more acceptably to become included?

will the panoramic windshield make its comeback?

will future ice cream trucks have a propeller on top?

and will their jingles play the oldies?

                exploring the 5th grade history of penmanship

vignette

the cursive. step back. see me.

face so close to the page

I can sense the agony of its pulp,

fingertips at the silvery nib.

take a long look at the effort

to do the assignment;

to write a letter to someone in ink;

to anyone, to make someone

out of nobody if privacy's an issue.

there's a prescription for doing it correctly

in how to start how to proceed and how to end.

but I’m left-handed. that’s two strikes

against me in the crowded 5th grade field.

look how the wet ink smudges below the hand

of what’s already been accomplished.

mark's "D for neatness".

complain to who or what but the right-handed system of things.

—— the big finish:

except for the girls

I didn't like the 5th grade

except for the girls.

                   

on the strength of David Astbury's essay

on Charles Baudelaire, I dug-out an old

poem from the dreary draft folder

and re-worked it to its inevitable faults.

pesky rumors were going around Paris

like bed sores and early deaths

where Charles and Odilon Redon we seen

french-kissing at a solitary table

inside a dark, musty establishment frequented

by artists, poets, and commoners drawn to

the goings on of the art scene in Europe at the time.

of course there exists no evidence that the two

dark romantics reported to be french-kissing

at that specific table or ever being at the same

place at the same time or had actually ever met.

now take me, for instance:

the rumors of me and Cynthia Lasagna 

french-kissing behind the stage curtain at the

Sons of Italy Hall’s banquet during the

"installation of officers" is true. no doubt about that.

But Charles and Odilon? I don’t know. maybe. who can say?

but as a poem-writer I certainly like that the rumor still exists.

 

                      Pleasant drugs one

at the register in the pharmacy

on Pleasant Street

a blister pack in hand containing

a desired item specifically manufactured

to open blister packs with ease.

It was demonstrated on YouTube

and now I’ve got one of my very own;

the tool which opens blister packs with ease

tucked neatly inside a blister pack which looks like

molten plastic was poured over the gizmo.

the counter girl looks like an angel.

she should be at her desk at the parochial

community college soul-searching

the Lamb of God and asking questions

about my apartment.

end of part one.

in part two I’m at home realizing the great

dichotomy I’m holding in my hands.

end of part two.

in part three my misery turns to thoughts

of self destruction.

last testament:

I'm to be buried in a blister pack

so that no insect, disciple of God,

worm, or cranky Beelzebub can get to me.

 

                  -the old woman who slept inside the big artificial Frates milk bottle-

I was a counter boy

working the ice cream joint

slurring milk with two scoops 

into vanilla frappes.

sometimes I made

a mess of things.

this happened when

I pulled the stainless

container of frappe substance

from the mixer before the blades

stopped spinning.

working the cash register

was a crime against

Frates Dairy inc.

I was bad at making change

especially when businessman Charles

paid his tab of $2.98

with a 20 dollar bill, a nickel,

two dimes and three pennies.

even now I have a distaste for businessmen.

the manager’s aunt slept

in the backroom on occasion

because back home her oldman

slapped her around from the Ripple.

so..not inside the big artificial Frates milk bottle,

but in the backroom is where she actually slept.

the more I think about things

the better off you’ll be.