AT THE LAUREL THEATRE, 1974

is the last time you waited in line
to see a movie on Laurel Street,
where you stood in the cool night air,
excited to be with everyone else,
inching forward, to the window
of the glass booth ,polished chrome
vents made for listening, speaking
with the strange little woman with
red hair and black cat woman glasses
dangling from her neck on a beaded chain.

The Life and Times of Grizzly Adams,
the last time you went to the movies
with your sister and grandfather, both.
But was it the last time you opened those
glass doors that formed a wall, or was it
the last time you walked on purple paisley carpet,
past red ropes, antique brass stanchions
to the one wide open place that played
just one movie for the night, the week.

Perhaps it was the last time you watched a film
on a screen two stories high, almost as wide,
framed in burgundy drapes, tied back with
gold fringe and tassels, all to match the chandeliers,
golden eagles clutching arrows, branches,tattered scrolls.

Maybe it was the last time you heard
the audience applaud, whistle, and cheer
after sitting through the credits and theme song.
Or when was the last time you sat through
the second showing of a movie at nine o’clock
because the seven o’clock show was so great
that you wanted to remember it forever.

I do know that it wasn't the last time you went
to the refreshment stand to buy
Snow Caps, Good ‘n Plenty, and Junior Mints,
because after all the changes in life,

some things, still happen the way they used to

and I was reminded of this, buying them again

last Saturday, at the movies, with my wife and son.

Photo-http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Grizzly_Adams

PERCOLATOR

short black cord, silver basket full of pin holes,
water heated, expanded, traveled up the metal tube
popping, fizzing, gurgling, signaling dinner was over.
Time to wash the dishes, get ready for dessert.

fascinated by the little blips of brown water drops
jumping to the top of the glass bubble on the lid,
sending out an unforgettable smell, coffee was on…
chrome pot shining like the creamer and sugar bowl.

children wondered why it made that sound and
“how come it’s so steamy?” the adults always said
“get away from that thing, before you burn yourself”!
and when it was done perking, the pie got served.

Grownups used the time to say a few last words
about the day at work, plans for the next day, or the weather.
Kids sat silently eating key lime pie, pudding, or Junket
as they politely shoveled in the sweetness at meal’s end.

And every night, the grandfather at the head of the table
stirred his coffee, even though he took it black with no sugar.
Clanking it on the side of his cup, he announced “Hot spoon”
as he touched the back of our hands, a lesson in conduction.

But one day, a commercial break for David Brinkley,
Mr. Coffee appeared, and after dinner would change forever.
A well respected baseball legend was selling it to the world.
No more shiny pot, powerful noises, grinds on your tongue.

Coffee dripped through the paper filter, automatically it seemed.
Smelling great without the hissing, gurgling, or groans, just
smooth, rich tasting, brown cups, a “better brew” is what they said
and Pop said, “You knew it’d be good, if Joe Di Maggio’s selling it.”

Artwork-

http://pixelarchitecture.com/todd/mrcoffee.jpg

THE BIRD FEEDER

Sing to me little friend, you know
I don’t want your wings or feathers.
I don’t want to put you in a metal cage.
I don’t want to roast you on the grill.
All I want is to do is hear your song.

I fill the oblong plastic cylinders with seed
so that I may hear your voices on the air,
the ones heard at the beginning of time.
The same tunes heard by my grandfather,
and all the others, now long gone like
those who came before you, in your family.

Change swoops in with each Autumn breeze
and wipes the land clean again, makes us sleep
because in the winter, there aren’t many birds
flying around, whistling or sitting on tree branches.
My small backyard is an empty, lonely place,
no leaves, no flowers, no green grass, no life.

With a mixture of white millet, cracked corn
black oil sunflower seeds, and red safflower.
“Songbird Supreme” or “Cardinal Blend”,
I trick you all into singing for me or maybe
it is you who tricked me into feeding you.

No matter, I am pleased to sit at my kitchen table
early in the morning, staring out the window
dreaming of that first cup of coffee and
the first few notes of your dependable music.

SATURDAY MORNINGS IN OCTOBER

Leaves, stems burning bright yellow
green is gone, the brown is coming
and when I see these colors, I know
that they are the fields that I ran
through at the age of nine or ten.

Soybeans grown for many reasons,
I wondered why we did not eat them.
After gathering the dried little pods,
in the crisp morning air of Autumn,
I filled the pockets of my red flannel shirt,
a gray hooded sweatshirt, faded tan corduroys
with the little smooth, rock hard seeds.

Carrying them home, you let me
place them in a round, shiny tin pie pan
with a splash of cooking oil and a ton of salt.
They roasted in the oven for a few minutes
like the peanuts and cashews of summer
on the boardwalk of our Jersey shore.

Crunchy, with a wooden, nutty flavor,
I enjoyed them like they were a special treat
because I had found them, I had taken them
and you had let me explore them where
others would have laughed or ignored
my interests in the growing things.

All the plants and animals I discovered
in the fields, the beaches, the woods,
and you were the only one, who took the time.
You stopped, listened, and spoke to me.

photo credit-http://www.flickr.com/photos/ervetteck2/1403072650/in/set-72157601819468112/

SOMEONE'S AT THE DOOR

she says to me, “but I didn’t answer it”
as she wakes me from a Saturday nap in my easy chair.
I go to the door in my athletic shirt, old jean shorts, shoeless.
Probably looking confused and like I just woke up.

The man says he is Daniel, like in the lion’s den .
Then he introduces a red headed woman named Ginger
and I think of Gilligan’s Island, how she doesn’t look too bad,
I think of how she would be happier getting it on in bed
instead of following this poor guy around selling religion
in the suburbs and working class neighborhoods of Jersey.
She says nothing, she doesn’t smile, she doesn’t move.

A bag on his shoulder stuffed with thin colorful magazines.
And like a magician, a Bible appears from out of nowhere,
brown, small, new and somehow soft looking as he holds it open.
A drop of rain falls on the page, and I wipe it off, instinctively.

I stand holding open my door, as he begins to speak about
the sign my wife hung on the door for November’s election.
I explain, the sign means nothing to me since every time we vote,
we cancel each other out. It’s been this way for years you see.

He speaks of kingdoms, rulers, Matthew. He reads the “Our father” to me.

I wipe the sleep from my eyes while wondering if he saw the other sign,
“No Soliciting” and for a brief moment as he drones on about God’s love,
I feel sorry for them, two young people full of conviction, determined
to share the “word” and I find a brief pause in the man’s voice
to stop him, I thank them for the kind words as he hands me
a copy of “The Watchtower” before heading to the next house,
where they probably will see no one, because they’ll ignore the bell
and tell each other , “Don’t answer it, it’s those Jehovah’s again.”

artwork-http://bizarrocomic.blogspot.com/