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.
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.
