Classic and Contemporary Poetry
BREAKFAST AT THE WESTERN CAFE, by JIM PETERSON First Line: Rain has muddied the river, someone says Subject(s): Restaurants; Cafes; Diners | ||||||||
Rain has muddied the river, someone says, and spoiled the fishing for today. Each day climbs on the back of the last one like breath after breath getting nowhere. The waitress at the Western Cafe, blonde and beautiful and in demand, turns that river of coffee at the end of her hand into cup after cup, puts down a cinnamon roll big as a boxing glove, smiles over her secret frown, and the long-faced rancher at table number four will not look at her. The girl who starts on Monday sits at the counter all day to learn the ropes. For me this is time without encroachment burning in my belly like a Mexican omelet. A sign behind the counter says "T-bone $2.95, with meat $8.75." An old photo of the Roundup Parade from the Twenties catches the marching band midstride, sunlight flashing on the tubas and trombones. Two guys remember the rumors of fraud -- a small boy creeping under the timbers and the lazy sloshing of fire. High on the wall the night-crawling skull of a steer presides over this clanking of spoons and forks. Everywhere here hands know their roles by heart, curling over the edges of news, drifting over food on grills and tables. An old man in a small room adds receipts. Hutterites at a long table behind me -- the strong, suspendered men, the sackcloth, white-capped women -- laugh at their inside jokes. Good workers, the waitress whispers, but they'll steal you blind. The cattlebrands burned into wooden plaques above our heads roam over thousands of sections on the butts of steers and cows. The waitress goes home wrapped in the warmth of her ropes, chanting their names into her children's ears: smile, remember the regulars, keep moving, there's always something needs to be done, use up every second of your break. Hearts that know their roles by hand welcome exhaustion as a kind of peace. An elk's head wears sunglasses, a white Stetson and a red bandanna. The bucked-off cowboy in an old photo is always flying above that arched back -- glorious black oblivion in the horse's eye. http://www.wlu.edu/~shenano | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...IN THE GLORIOUS YEMEN RESTAURANT by KHALED MATTAWA HOMAGE TO H & THE SPEEDWAY DINER by BERNADETTE MAYER ALL-NITE LUNCHROOM by JOHN FREDERICK NIMS MONA'S TACO by NAOMI SHIHAB NYE INITIAL CONDITIONS by MARVIN BELL DINNER IN A QUICK LUNCH ROOM by STEPHEN VINCENT BENET WHEN LOVE GOES by SARA TEASDALE |
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