ChrisA

The Piccadilly



We sat in old-fashioned booths, I ordered Rubens,

She ordered Club Sandwiches; we split milkshakes, always.

I stretched my legs across my side of the booth, and talked

Out of the corner of my mouth. Our waitress,

Always eighty-years old, moved like a humming-bird

With pitchers and hot plates, her rush syncopated

With quick smoke breaks, two puffs at a time,

She flew back and forth to pick up orders, drop off plates,

the metal wheel spinning wildly

In the rectangular window where invisible cooks whipped the grill,

Their broad shoulders and white smocks exchanging places,

Sliding plates up on the counter (you wondered if that one was yours),

Gold sandwich bread dipped in melted butter and fried on the grill,

That one was yours.

Grease smudged the sides of your face, the food

Tasted good. You didn’t think about anything outside

The orbit of your plate, a mound of sweet ketchup and your mother

Who let you have her fries.

After you finished, you fixed your eyes on the glass cabinet

Under the antique cash register, where stacks of candy bars,

Packs of gum and cartons of cigarettes were held in frozen time.

Your mother gave you a dollar. The grease was still on your mouth

When you stuffed the chocolate

Inside: your mother watched you eating, she thought

She would have you forever.



CRA

11/19/2006

lanaia74

VERY well done!