The Oaks

Despite my shrink saying It’s all about

the future now, the succulent grease

of the Half-Chicken Special soaks

the blue-checked, wax-paper square

lining the red basket over which I hang

my head & gobble. Jimmy G gimps past,

a long way from Guam to Little Flower

Mobile Estates just to hobble the bleak

mile to The Oaks. I’ve never run a table.

Dan’s drunk but doesn’t show it unless

you count his relentless riddle-me-this

& the flubbed breaks. Wendy runs

the table near the glass-block window,

switching her hips as the five-ball drops.

I’m jealous of every look she shoots

Drum’s way or Billy’s, now & throughout

no matter how many futures. Jeans worn

to fraying from the horseback hours

she can’t afford anymore, Wendy sits

right here to wolf a roast beef sandwich

& help drain this pitcher of Piels.

Glistening black, fringed with furry ice,

the Boulevard in low-sun Saturday runs

straight as the Appian Way to Newfield.

What then? Malaga means a jog to the left

but not before Rusty’s Barber Shop

& The Trestle recede in the rearview.

Apple season’s gone, but since Wendy

loves simple surprises, the last Winesap

sits in my glove box. Jimmy falls but gets

right back up again. Semper fi. Dan’s ethics

force him not to front the runabout he knows

we’re good for. Why? Kansas City. A good place

to go from a place you’ve used up, so no boat,

but Carol’s on her way & tomorrow’s Sunday,

so unless someone spills the beans, she’ll fix

the chili Dan loves while the rest of us do

what we always do—flip channels, rag,

mope down to Buckshutem, poke the fire,

fill & empty the melamine bowls, butter crock,

heirloom corncob, honey pot. How could Dan

forsake the pallet pushed against the hip-high

attic wall? I grok road-hunger, but this may be/

may have been paradise, not this story’s

facsimile. Me? I’ll be the last one to live it.