The screen door slammed shut Not near fast enough To keep out July or the flies And sieved the humidity Through the wire mesh- A free flow exchange of gulf moisture Mingling with aromas of Charlie’s cooking.
It didn’t close sufficiently tight To keep Charlie’s mind confined To the griddle or the fry pots- The wood framed keeper couldn’t Screen out the passion that resided in him. To wander behind a bull tongue plow in fresh air Instead of this grease mist That coated his senses until the whole world Smelled exactly like French-fries.
The café owned him in a cruel way
if you can dream; you can fly...if you are flying; you are dreaming.
February 13, 1981 ~ wreaked the car... February 17, 1981 ~ got real first job... Bakers Better Burgers and Tacos of Sunnymead California. Worked the grill. I think every kid should work fast food so they know what they don't want to do for the rest of their lives. Sir Robert... always a good read and I do like your style. Slick pic' there too. Lookin' like you's the MAN!
I once worked at a little place called The Golden Drumstick~~Fried chicken, hamburgers (NOT the frozen ones!) and onion rings...and lots of grease! LOL Had to wash my hair with Spic N Span to get it out!
It's not the love you fear, but the fall from the height~Edwin McCain
I wish that this poem had gone on and on about Charlie.
In my mind I had him starting at the diner at 16 during the depression when his folks lost there farm. I envisioned him working for Old Man Gilmore then "inheriting" the diner after the Old Man passed away. All the while hating the diner because of what he lost...yet loving the it for what it saved him from.
Oh well.....maybe someday I will tackle all these thoughts for this poem........