the poetrysheet
whimsy, subversion, bowling
Number 464, Feb. 13, 2004
Up too late, again
“Down the hall upstairs
from me
There’s a girl I swear I never see
I hear the ringing of her phone
She must be up there all alone
She hangs her clothes out on the line
They’re hanging there right next to
mine
And if the wind should blow just right
She could be in my arms tonight...”
—John Prine, “We are the lonely” from Lost Dogs & Mixed
Blessings
That fat guy at the counter in front of the liquor
bottles just sits there, half-closed eyes, pasty flesh wide as the Mississippi.
He’s the one with dirt-smudge hair that sticks to his head, which always seems
a little sweaty and greasy. His hands are catcher’s mitts filled with sand, you
know. And, no matter when I come in, he’s eating a polish sausage, one of those
weenies they have in the dog sweater under the lights by the pop machine.
So, he’s there when I walk in this morning to get
some joe to put in the cup holder on the dash. I say, “Karl,” I read his
nametag. “Karl, you eat them things for breakfast.”
“Lunch and dinner, too. What of it?”
“Nothin’, man. It’s just eatin’ dogs out of the
sweaty dog machine ain’t so good for you, you know.”
“Yeah. What’s the big concern all’a sudden?”
“Lissen, I come in here three times a week for some
java. And every time, you’re sitting there like you never move, your feet on
the bottom of the case there, and you got your jaw workin’ one of them polish
sausages.”
Karl finally looks up at me. This time, his right eye
opens enough for me to see that it’s blue.
“So, mister,” he says, “you didn’t answer my
question.”
I’m standing there with my go-cup hanging on my index
finger. There’s no one around, nothing to take some kinda, you know, refuge
behind.
“It’s just weird, Karl. A regular customer comes in
here all different times of the day and you’re eating the same thing.”
“OK,” he says. “You come in sometimes in the morning,
sometimes at lunch, and sometimes on the way to work. Same thing every time.
Coffee in that dirty-ass cup you never wash. Three sugars and two creams. Once
in a great while, you get a donut.
“So let me ask you, why are you always getting the
same thing all different times of the day?”
“Karl, man, it’s coffee.”
“Big deal. It’s the same. Why?”
“Coffee helps me through the day, you know. Wakes me
up in the morning. Gets me through the afternoon. Tastes good on the way home
to work.”
An old lady in a long coat walked in and scowled at Karl
on her way to the cooler for a 40 ouncer.
“A polish sausage,” Karl starts while he rings the
old lady and pilfers her change, “done right with mustard and just the correct
amount of sweet-hot relish helps me through the day, you know. Wakes me up in the
morning. Gets me through the afternoon. Tastes good on the way home to work.”
“But coffee ain’t gonna kill me,” I says and go to
fetch some. Three sugars and two creams. No donut this time. When I get it
stirred up and the lid back on, I walk over to the counter.
Karl looks at the coffee on the counter and licks
away the last mustard on his fingers, smacking his fat lips. “So, you’re sure
it’s not gonna kill you?”
“Karl, it’s a cup of coffee.”
“Lotta bad shit can come of a cuppa coffee. High
blood pressure. Nervousness. Kidney problems. Dehydration.”
“Just ring it up, will ya?” I says.
“Look,” he says, handing me back my change. “This is
a shit-ass job. But I get to sit here and eat when I wanna, drink when I wanna,
and take home half the shit in the place if I wanna. A polish sausage may kill
me, but walking out that door may kill me, too.
“So, if I wanna eat a polish sausage, I’m gonna eat
it. Besides, God’s on my side.”
“God’s on your side? What the hell does that mean?” I
picked up my cup and made for the door.
“Everyone in my family lived to be ninety or more.
Every one of ‘em fat as hell. I figure I gotta good chance myself.”
Today’s poem:
By Jerry LaMartina
Radio antenna cord hangs lifeless,
turns car interior silent,
brings mobile Zazen.
Memories float and wisp,
Crystallize and flame, match headed,
Blaze for a moment,
twirl into smoke.
Landmarks passed on way to work—
embarrassments, victories
that appear, disappear.
They mean nothing now.
They are nothing.
They sit nowhere.
Stomp on gas,
Race a Dodge van through Midtown,
Beat the yellow light on Broadway at
39th.
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