… or the California
… or the White Rose
… or the Occidental
… or the New Occidental
your choice really, it all depends on your era.
I met Jesus here once
He had stepped outside for a smoke
And you will excuse my vernacular
But a bunch of Indians were hounding him
Got a cigarette man?
Hey Jesus, give me a light
And then they left
Jesus did his 40 days on Main Street
Over in 40 seconds
And now I am back
A mistrusting soul here to barter
A piece of my treasure
For cash
Perhaps the buyer has remorse
Or as I prefer to think, is an inconsiderate asshole
I’m not feeling in a conciliatory mood.
The windows are keeping me entertained.
One is a parlor
Perhaps a brothel
An antique lamp
Red adornments
A book and glass on the table
You can imagine a smoky room
Illicit meetings between married men
And beguiling women who thrill and frighten at once
And on the window
In Sharpie, the words
“New West”, a tiny well-penned scrawl
Beyond in the seating area I can see a book
Who is Jean Crawley I wonder
The title and remaining cover hidden
The window on the left features
A very skinny wooden polar bear
With a head that looks more like a dog
Poised on hind legs
Arms menacingly forward
Face in a growl
Disarmed by the sombrero on his head
Who could ever take a polar bear in a sombrero seriously?
To his left is a hat rack
With a life vest hung on a hook
Probably there because this skinny polar bear hasn’t enough
fat to keep him buoyant in the cold arctic oceans.
And the Sharpie message: “Please Help Me”
Skinny hungry looking polar bear
Skinny hungry locals
Makes sense… help me; apt.
The door trips me in.
It always has
It sticks and there is a slight rise
Into a dark closet of a vestibule
That, on a bright day renders blindness
And warmth.
The second door, a mere width from the first
Beckons me into this simple loved place
She greets me, the owner does
Seated there with customers
Grabs my arm on the way in
No words, just a halt, a glance into each other’s faces
Friendly smile, a squeeze of welcome.
I wish I knew her other than by face and name
Friendly enough
Her establishment is sandwiched
Between an OSB floor, varnished,
Chips brought out in haphazard relief
Grey where exposed.
And a ceiling, designed to look antique
A faux metal décor printed
On pealing paper where the tub in the rooms above have over
flown from a drunk down on his luck man, to leak his nature to this space below.
The lights old chandeliers, scrolled old wood with
candelabra bulbs
Yellowed by age.
A dull pallor upon the eating parlor;
Thinks eye.
Are you here for our breakfast?
An overly cheery voice renders my first thought:
Fuck-off, you overly cheery first thing in the morning
bugger.
But my ever-proper voice catches his infection:
Coffee please, and something simple, a sticky roll maybe.
We have no rolls or buns but I will bring you something
good, you can trust me that believe me.
And I do, there is no choice, at least I feel he leaves me
none.
Sit there he points
Compliant I do
I have no glasses so can’t read the old books nor the
magazines
He fills a mug half way with the last of the coffee.
A fresh pot is brewing.
The pictures on the wall invite scrutiny
They belong in a Montréal or New York Deli
Jewish women in a nosh
Dispensing advice unknown
One overly portly lady has me fascinated
Her belly in tight clothes hanging beyond her middle
A victim of gravity and knishes and oils and fish
Her face a mess of make-up
Hair a colored scramble
Pushing age back, and losing badly.
This place is filled, two rows of tables
Lining the walls beneath the eyes of Jews
Eat eat eat, enjoy
And all tables are filled save one
A sole table between the rows, right near the register
Why? one wonders
The coffee is good.
Warm for a cold day.
My meeting will not show
Sigh.
And he comes with more brew, my trusted server
And a small square plate
Modern in dimension and appearance
Out of place with the theme (?) of this place
Yet appropriate
Two fresh orange slices and a half a strawberry
I hope someone enjoys the other non-leafy half
And…
Two full slices of cinnamon toast
Swirls of sprinkled spice and brown sugar
Fried in butter
Light and perfect with black coffee
And destined to turn a foul mood better.
Happy!
And a happy couple trips through the door
A new born in a carrier
Bundled and hidden.
She greets them, the owner does
Seated there with her customers
Grabs mother’s arm on the way in
No words at first, just a halt, a glance into each other’s
faces
Friendly smile, a squeeze of welcome
And she takes the baby.
And my trusted server comes from the kitchen
And he goo’s over the baby.
And she shows the baby to each and every customer
He, sound asleep.
Oblivious to the world he has just charmed.
I met Jesus again here
A child that day.
He granted me peace
His peace he gave me.
And I broke bread
With butter and cinnamon and sugar
And warm black strong coffee.
And it was a glorious day.
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| Stolen shamelessly from: http://www.thetallestpoppy.com/Home.page |
