fresh bread on the counter
red vinegar on a plate of greens
the fumes of strong coffee
And listen to the lady behind the counter
talk about working at the potato chip plant
in Hermiston, how the grease smell would get in her hair
and the little slabs of tater before cooked would
take on the shapes of faces, animals, clouds…
And sit at a table with a red checkered cloth
dumping brown sugar in my coffee
smearing butter on bread
pouring olive oil on my salad
And wait for the little book store
to open with its racks of romances
and thrillers but also
North American Range Plants
The American Indian Tipi book
or the owner’s handmade
histories of Harney buckaroos, early
forest rangers,
pine trees that fit one to the rail car
And know that once the gas tank was filled
the groceries bought, that was all of town
for another week at least
Sometimes that was just enough
the feeling of doing something if not
good then at least well
no more, no less
Then one season
there was only butcher paper
over the windows
of an empty storefront
Coming in from the woods,
I could find no reason to linger in
that town anymore
It was just an Erickson’s Sentry market
and a Texaco staffed by
nubile young women
who each lasted about a summer
before a full belly
rose over the top
of her Wranglers
It was as if the town had dismantled its
front porch and visiting was
either a matter of peeking
in the window or opening the
door wide on all its faults
So I took a cue from
Ing Hay’s apotechary—
Left shut for years and years
In the middle of that town
while inside
bottles of ginseng, records of who owed what to whom,
the makings for a pipe of opium
recalled in darkness a
time when chinese was spoken there
–and I mostly forget about Elaine’s café
except sometimes when its
muddy and cold in the sagebrush
and the imagined smell of warm bread
fills the lungs
like a cloud of incense
No comments:
Post a Comment