Eggs glared sunny-side
up at him when he'd ordered
scrambled. Biscuits
burnt, potatoes neither
hashed nor browned, he spit
coffee, shouting across
the checkerboard
diner, How about shaking that
jelly over here, honey! Wadded
hose crawling down her
varicose knees, she couldn’t
waddle fast enough to thwart
his whistling with one hand, banging
a spoon against his empty
mug with his other. You got
a problem, she drawled,
thick lip arched like fat
Elvis in drag, tell it
to your mama.
Where,
he barked, arrowy
eyebrows accentuating
yellowy goo dribbling
off his brandished fork,
are my goddam
grits? Her curled lip
quivered while a salty
globule sneaked
down her cheek, spilling
her life’s minutiae: piss-
stained sofa, TV on
the fritz, unemployed,
unwed daughter knocked
up again, the father, unlike
the future, unknown
or in jail, everything–down
to her flea-infested
mutt run over that a.m.–
rising in her gorge.
Fork dropping
onto his plate, he
flashed a crooked
smile of contrition, knowing
unspoken hardships
of quarterly sales
red-lining, wife
screwing the hard-
boiled, good old boy sheriff, dis-
obedient, maladjusted
kids keen on self-mutilation
& rap. His voice gone
soft & gravelly, he offered
a stick of Wrigley’s
with his apology. Gum,
she sniffed, lifting
her lacy aproned skirt to grab
her crotch,
this.
the checkerboard
diner, How about shaking that
jelly over here, honey! Wadded
hose crawling down her
varicose knees, she couldn’t
waddle fast enough to thwart
his whistling with one hand, banging
a spoon against his empty
mug with his other. You got
a problem, she drawled,
thick lip arched like fat
Elvis in drag, tell it
to your mama.
Where,
he barked, arrowy
eyebrows accentuating
yellowy goo dribbling
off his brandished fork,
are my goddam
grits? Her curled lip
quivered while a salty
globule sneaked
down her cheek, spilling
her life’s minutiae: piss-
stained sofa, TV on
the fritz, unemployed,
unwed daughter knocked
up again, the father, unlike
the future, unknown
or in jail, everything–down
to her flea-infested
mutt run over that a.m.–
rising in her gorge.
Fork dropping
onto his plate, he
flashed a crooked
smile of contrition, knowing
unspoken hardships
of quarterly sales
red-lining, wife
screwing the hard-
boiled, good old boy sheriff, dis-
obedient, maladjusted
kids keen on self-mutilation
& rap. His voice gone
soft & gravelly, he offered
a stick of Wrigley’s
with his apology. Gum,
she sniffed, lifting
her lacy aproned skirt to grab
her crotch,
this.
From Walking in Chicago with a Suitcase in My Hands (Knut House Press, 2016). First appeared in Blue Collar Review.
Comments