Cleaning Up at the Hamtramck Burger Chef
Nights at this place
boss lines spray bottles up
across the counter. He says the red’s
for shelves, the blue’s for toilets,
and the white’s only for stainless steel.
His eyebrows frown, but when
that bastard disappears into his office
I spray what I want
onto what I want.
Some nights his wife lifts
her ass onto the counter. She points
out turnover skins I missed.
Looks like she’s been slept in
for years. Those nights I time
his trip to the bank so I can chase
her with the white bottle.
And I catch her and squeeze
the little Chef faces stitched
over her breasts. Some nights,
that is. But most nights the boss
looks right through me. His wife cleans
the salad bar, and yells
at the bits of mustard and dressing.
As if they were to blame
for all this. Most nights I turn up
the radio and sing my own words.
Something about being in this business to stay
alive. Something like that.
Outlaw
Maybe you’ve known a guy
half crazy, plain stupid, or just itching to be free,
who tapes don’t try to find me
to the refrigerator door, and is never
heard from again, not even a phone call
or a post card. He changes from work clothes
into black scuffy boots, blue jeans, dark
t-shirt and a motorcycle jacket, hides his face
under a cowboy hat. He hails loneliness
like a cab, breaks every promise
he ever made to himself.
What balls, the men
at the factory say. Braver than a suicide.
But they hope they don’t catch
what he has. And he winds up
drifting transient as a dream
not in some Kerouac utopia, but beneath
the random lettering of a broken marquee.
And he stumbles at dusk
to listen to a revivalist swollen
like a tent in trade for a few hours
in a warm bed. He forgets
what’s missing in his life,
stops telling himself the lies
we need to make sense, to survive,
and he believes nothing
is always what’s left
after awhile, and nothing he does or has done
needs to be explained.
Maybe you’ve known a guy
half crazy, plain stupid, or just itching to be free,
who tapes don’t try to find me
to the refrigerator door, and is never
heard from again, not even a phone call
or a post card. He changes from work clothes
into black scuffy boots, blue jeans, dark
t-shirt and a motorcycle jacket, hides his face
under a cowboy hat. He hails loneliness
like a cab, breaks every promise
he ever made to himself.
What balls, the men
at the factory say. Braver than a suicide.
But they hope they don’t catch
what he has. And he winds up
drifting transient as a dream
not in some Kerouac utopia, but beneath
the random lettering of a broken marquee.
And he stumbles at dusk
to listen to a revivalist swollen
like a tent in trade for a few hours
in a warm bed. He forgets
what’s missing in his life,
stops telling himself the lies
we need to make sense, to survive,
and he believes nothing
is always what’s left
after awhile, and nothing he does or has done
needs to be explained.
The Dream Home
Traveling north to hunt deer
you take a wrong turn
and stop for directions
at a house you've never seen.
A woman, fat and wholesome,
awaits you on the porch.
She smells like freshly baked bread
and when you ask her
for directions she leads you inside
to a clean white table,
a cup of black tea.
This is more than you ever imagined before.
A plate, a knife and a fork are already laid out.
You pretend you're not starving,
take a sip of the hot tea,
place the napkin in your lap.
Three girls, each under 5,
hold their skirts
as they walk down the long stairway
into the room. They smile at you,
and you smile back.
After supper the woman asks
if you might tuck the girls in
before you leave. As you tuck each one in
you hum nursery songs
under your chest.
After they're asleep
the woman invites you
to the back porch
to watch the sun go. You do not refuse her
when she opens your red flannel shirt.
You need love like all of us.
This is no dream, you think,
No dream. In the wet grass
you try to match your breathing
to hers.
Traveling north to hunt deer
you take a wrong turn
and stop for directions
at a house you've never seen.
A woman, fat and wholesome,
awaits you on the porch.
She smells like freshly baked bread
and when you ask her
for directions she leads you inside
to a clean white table,
a cup of black tea.
This is more than you ever imagined before.
A plate, a knife and a fork are already laid out.
You pretend you're not starving,
take a sip of the hot tea,
place the napkin in your lap.
Three girls, each under 5,
hold their skirts
as they walk down the long stairway
into the room. They smile at you,
and you smile back.
After supper the woman asks
if you might tuck the girls in
before you leave. As you tuck each one in
you hum nursery songs
under your chest.
After they're asleep
the woman invites you
to the back porch
to watch the sun go. You do not refuse her
when she opens your red flannel shirt.
You need love like all of us.
This is no dream, you think,
No dream. In the wet grass
you try to match your breathing
to hers.
