Saturday, May 22, 2021

Eating Grief at Bickford's



JACOB WIRTH (Boston, Mass. 1868 to 2018 )



The sawdust

on the floor

has gone the way

of all dust.



But it is the hard slap

of the house dark

on the dark, mahogany bar

that sustains me.



Yes ,

they have made

concessions

to a high

definition TV

but the ancient

beaten ivories

of the piano

still hold its torch songs

on Friday nights.



And

it seems

there is still a wholesome , yellow statement

of cornbread,

and a saucer of

baked beans.



The long dining room

has stretched over 100 years

and in the rear

there is a pay phone

in its battered booth

before you hit the head.



And that din of laughter--

(and I admit

I miss the cigar smoke)

and the bright red--

sheaves of corned beef

sprouting from dark bread.





What was once alive in this city

is still

not quite

dead.



Copley Square, Ken's Deli~ By Doug Holder



Copley Square—Midnight—Slipped into Ken’s Deli. A Jackie Gleasonish fat man –the manager—stationed by the rotisserie chickens—a chorus line of spread legs, melting flesh, wings posturing on their plump hips—wondering which one would I choose. A dishwasher emerged, effeminate man, dirty apron, a cigarette in a holder, long expressive hands, wearing an eye patch. Drag Queens in the men’s room. At the counter on the first floor—a waitress—not long on patience piped “What’s it going to be, hon.” Actors off from a gig at the Colonial, gesturing to each other dramatically at the booths—a few years before—I was a dishwasher here. I was chosen from a lineup of world-weary men: “You, you and you,” at 5PM—peering at all this through stacks of dishes—all this would be mine one day—a late night character—laughing over corn beef and chopped liver on dark rye—with poets and writers, after a day of writing—joking like Dorothy Parker, my round table…my Algonquin Hotel. The men I worked with I knew would reappear again—even then taking mental notes—trying to construct a narrative of the chaos of my life.








Eating Grief at Bickford's

· From Allen Ginsberg's “Kaddish”



There are no places anymore

Where I can sit at a threadbare table

Pick at the crumbs on my plate

And wipe

The white dust

From my pitch

Black shirt.



The old men

Who used to spout

Marxist

Rants from

The cracked porcelain of their cups

Are gone

The boiling water

Ketchup soup

The mustard sandwich

They use to relish

All that so lean

Cuisine.



Oh, Hunchback

In the corner

Your lonely reflection

In the glass of water---

And Tennessee Williams' Blanche

Eyes me through her grilled cheese

“Pass the sugar, sugar”

She teases.



Maynard

The queer

Late night

Security guard.

His policeman's hat

Draped on his head

Looking like a

Sacrilegious rake

This countless

Renditions

Of defending his honor

In the amorous, crazed embraces

Of muscular young men

How he protests…

Too much…too much.


The discarded men

Blue blazers

Shedding their threads

Outcasts with newspapers

Stains of baked beans

On their lapels

Fingering a piece

Of passionless Cod

Lolled by their

own murmur.



Winter is outside the large, long window

Pushing pedestrians

With its cold, snapping whip

The cracks in the pavement

Are filled

With flakes of melting,

Dying, snow.




271 Newbury Street


Early in the morning—I heard the retired Irish civil servant…a pensioner with a stained undershirt and plaid boxers—coughing up phlegm—heard through the thin walls: How are you, me boy? he crooned at me in the morning—both of us jockeying for the head down the hall. Then the fire alarm—a gas main break—out in the street—explosions traversed Newbury Street. I ran down the stairs in my blue corduroy sports jacket—a slightly irregular affair—from the depths of Filene’s Basement…padded shoulders to bolster my narrow ones and a frail ego—a waxed mustache—the guys in the real estate office on the first floor used to crack: Well, Hello Dali! I made my way down the winding staircase (the spinster on the second floor opened the door a crack—she knew she would be flushed out)— me—with a red scarf around my skinny neck—like a poor man’s ascot—Kirby Perkins, the newsman on the scene—I heard him say from the side of his mouth to the cameraman: Look at this fuckin’ character. So oblivious to my absurdity—a beret on my already thinning hair—a rakish angle—I could be a posturing mannequin in one of the shop windows—central casting-clichéd young Beatnik.

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