Whose

All these loose pieces

Notations of what, weathered

Somehow fitting as one

Suddenly blown to the wind

River and Osborne SW

What happened?

You used to be so great

And then you committed a dereliction of duty

The first place to eat in the village

An icon at the gates

Plates of good Italian food

And fantastic pizzas

And cold beers from all over the earth

And open until 4:00 AM

A beaconed neon light

But then what

A spiral to depths

A bad spot so no repair here

A customer sees dereliction and does not return

So further decline

We invested in you

You did not invest in yourself

So we divested of you

And we wait

Knowing this, this is the corner

The gateway to the village

And we fret as the building decays, empty

And we hope for unique

And satisfying

Demanding evidence rumors of chains are all false

Cause this is our home

And we will support you

So long as you are part of the fabric

Or we will sink you.

We are fickle that way.

Self Reflection with Frosted Face

I am prone to robbery

So one part of this wit likes to think

No I have never participated in the felonious arts

But I am prone to it.

I cannot pass a bank without consideration

Of vaults, and cash drawers, and frightened customers

I think thoughts of a robbing hood

When I pass the cash stores, creators of victims

Fellow thieves who have legally participated in that I fear to try

And when I pass near a Seven-Eleven

Well

I fair itch

So here I sit in this bakery

Eating my baklava while wearing my balaclava

Staring past the facsimile idols of Greek gods

Past beyond the frosty panes to across the street

Planning a perfect crime

And I spring to action

Pulling down my balaclava

Zipping my parka

And taking the last of my baklava

I march with the confidence of the driven

Through the doors...

A cheery greeting in an Abu accent

"Welcome dear sir"

To the counter

"Dear sir, if I may

You have baklava on your balaclava"

Stupefied,

Mortified, I fled

Running into the frigid night

Breath weighing heavily upon my mask

Layers of hoar upon hoar

And stop 
To stare at the shop front reflection of this fool

A frosted flake of a man

Not a robber

A lover

Of backlava

River and Osborne SE

Rafe’s coffee is exceptional

He serves it hot and fresh

Every single day of the year

On those that are lonely

The holidays for the uninvited

I can always find friendship here.

These customers are predictable

Not the chic from across the way

The seniors come and run the sofa and chairs

Inviting us in to learn of their days

And their politics

Students live here

A constant cramming

Free connections and exceptional elixirs

Potions of sleep deprivations

To drive knowledge so they can become chic

Free newspapers contrast the self-supplied technologies

And books, bibles and dissertations

With a sprinkle of opinion and disagreement

Music joins, a familiar tune breaking through the atmosphere

Near the dish washer people dance

Not to tunes

But to nature as they wait their turn

For the key on the big stick

And all stop for a moment

As new come through the door

Push in, an opposite conciliation to street level entries

Do we know him or her

No matter

At Rafe’s place they are all friends

And the cheerful baristas welcome

In a warm embrace of coffee

And Gunn’s pastries

And the best of company

River and Osborne NE

Rockefeller stood proud here at one time

The phonetic extraction of his once proud company

Dispensing fuel and repairs

Fallen to disrepair and abandon

To rise again

A theatre of the community

Banded together

Fierce fighters of independence

Slaying the giant tigers of business

Who would dare commercialize this concrete commons

Protected by, reinforced

With a transient community of the theatre

Drawn here as the prairie winter turns warm

These unwashed children come

From every direction and every place

To loiter and celebrate a hobo life

Simple bags and bedding

Instruments, music, dance, and public lovers

Dreadlocks hair with flakes of skin and city grime

And dogs, a testament of caring

For these kids can barely care for themselves

These children are a link to the culture of this corner

Drawing pictures into the concrete planters

Dispensing stories to all who pass

To any who will listen

Grateful for food or a smoke and for coffee

And for the kitchen in the Church across the way

Mingling with the artists

And the lovers of thespian arts

Dance and comedy and song and festivals

The new Gas arisen from Rockefeller’s ashes

A melting pot of theatrical

A company of the proud

Dispensing fuel for the soul

A friendly repair to a shared and peaceful transience

River and Osborne NW

He’s a drunk

He’s an addict

Always seem spat to me

As if this is a current state of affairs

It would seem many in my life know him

All too well

Yet not at all in his today

A serenade to life as we enter and exit the commission

“He’s a drunk”

Then we walk by with arm-loads of liquor and he asks for none

“He’s an addict”

Jitterbugs with coffee and cigarettes and he asks for none

Only good music for voluntary money

Come see me at the Pyramid man

The show will be great

And buy my CD, how come you never buy my CD

You know why.

I am saying good-bye

When man?

When the man says I can man.

He always holds my hand longer than is normally comfortable

Peering into the depths of each soul

Our pools of stories crossed time and again

Life is good, I’ve come from bottom

And I love myself

When you finally say good-bye I will know it

But we will always be connected here last of all

At the heart

At this corner

Dining at the Eureka

… 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.

Stolen shamelessly from: http://www.thetallestpoppy.com/Home.page