Just something I've been working on

Here, Behind the Restaurant, What Do You Want to Remember?

 

The thick sheet

of  ice, gnarled and

grease slicked? 

 

I am from cheeseburgers

and french fries, real

ice cream milkshakes,

bleach rags, bleach rags—

bleach rags and orange clean.

 

Beside the back door, Jonny and John crouch

rolling cigarettes.  They are arguing

about music and stroking

each other’s egos.  I slide

toward the dumpster.

They kick the edge of the ice slick and

soda drips on my shoes.

 

Here, it’s been dark since

we got here.  And I am from

tinny muzac and “Anna,

order up,” the cold slap

of the walk –in. 

 

The dance of the server starts slow

and halting.  We look before we move.

 

I can do this half-asleep.

I can do this with my eyes closed.

 

This ice slick happens every year.