Robert M. Simmons  

from Morning in Middleborough... (Poems 1991-2006)

        Walter and Wayne at Harry's Diner

Defying the January cold

with J.S. Bach's Toccata and Fugue

on the stereo

Walter enters the parking lot

of Harry's Diner

in his Volvo wagon.

The neon lights and stainless steel

remind him of the Miss Providence

after parties on Benefit Street

drunk from Chianti

with Jasmine, an art student from RISD,

dining on steak sandwiches,

French-fries with cider vinegar

and New York cherry cheese cake

then driving through the darkness

and bitter cold

in his MG roadster.

He parks next to Wayne's

Dodge Ram four-by-four

where the beagle-hound Jeff

is sitting in the cab

and a hunting bow

hangs in the rear window.

The bed of the truck contains

a dead deer

frozen and hog-tied

and an ornate Victorian cupola.

The cupola piques Walter's curiosity

as he passes beneath

a mean looking row of icicles

poised above the entrance

to Harry's Diner

like a set of shark's teeth

and sits at the counter

next to Wayne

who has a fashionable

two days growth of beard,

a gold ring in his left ear-lobe,

a Harley-Davidson jacket

and a do-rag on his head

beneath leftover

Christmas, Hanukkah and Kwanzaa decorations

festooning the interior.

Facing a plate of chicken quesadillas

and a glass of lemon spring water

Wayne is chatting with Porsche,

one of the waitresses,

who is leaning over the counter

displaying an ample portion

of her well tanned and freckled

less than ample bosom,

and tears well up in Wayne's eyes

when the jukebox starts playing

"I'll Be Missing You,"

Sean "Puff Daddy" Combs's tribute

to the late B.I.G.

Walter is eager to know

why there is a cupola in Wayne's truck

but first brings up the deer.

Wayne describes stalking the creature

with Jeff by his side,

the necessity to thin the herd,

the precise placement of the arrow

to minimize suffering

and the dishes he has planned

that will pay homage

to his prey.

Once this subject is exhausted

Walter inquires about the cupola

and is informed that it was salvaged

from one of the finest residences on Main Street

before it was razed

to make way for a filling station.

Walter is about to ask him

what he intends to do with the cupola

when Wayne answers a call

on his cell phone.

After ordering American chop suey

Walter watches Porsche as she heads for the kitchen

and notices a large tattoo

placed on the exposed portion

of her back

reminding him of pictures he has seen

in old issues of National Geographic

taken in the remotest jungles

of the Amazon.

There was a cupola

on his uncle's Second Empire house

on Hope Street

where Walter would go with his parents

on Saturday evenings

viewing travel slides

of Europe, Asia and the Holy Lands

on a stereoscope in the parlor

with its burgundy Persian carpets,

amber slag glass lamps,

Renaissance Revival furniture,

leather bound books,

marble busts and oil paintings,

ivory, jade and porcelain souvenirs,

Navajo weavings, African masks

and shrunken heads from Borneo

while the adults played canasta

with the help of a mechanical shuffling machine

his uncle attired in a three-piece suit,

high black shoes

and his Phi Beta Kappa pin

hanging from a gold chain

stretched across his vest.

Porsche returns with the American chop suey

at about the same time

that Wayne finishes his conversation.

Walter butters a roll

and sips his coffee before asking,

"What do you plan to do with it?"

"With what?"

"The cupola."

"Make a house for Jeff."

Suddenly the great jaws close

with a snap

as he knew they would

and an inescapable melancholy

seems to grip the diner

despite the residual holiday decorations.

"I'll take that up any time you're ready,"

says Porsche

leaving their respective checks on the counter.

As Walter crosses the parking lot

he can see Jeff

sitting in the cab of the truck

with his tongue hanging out.

Squinting still

from the unfiltered light of revelation

he drives eastward

tailgated mercilessly

by a crazed woman in a mini-van

talking on her cell phone

behind a sand and gravel truck

dropping lethal pebbles

as it rumbles down the road

past frozen cranberry bogs

occupied by families of wild geese

huddled together for security

framed by pines and oaks

silhouetted along the horizon

illuminated by a winter sun

low in the sky

streaked by peach and purple tinted clouds

while a twin engine Beechcraft

makes its daily run to Nantucket

with the stereo playing again

when all the pieces fit together

in a chaotic and terrifying harmony.

                            © 2005 by Robert M. Simmons

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Subjects: poems about, Providence, RI, Middleboro, MA, diners,  popular culture, decline of civilization, poetry, poems

Walter and Wayne at Harry's Diner