One Evening That Lasted Eleven Years
An Experimental Poem
I
It was a headache
or a strange burn
on the back of the fourth finger
on my right hand.
The scorching heat—the kitchen
that would rage and stir the atmosphere of the whole room.
Each face turned away
and turned towards you,
the lemon scent of the late-shift workers
broke through the 7 PM
and rung out over the talking, whispering and
silence.
The brown furnishings
that accommodated the echo of each note
of rockabilly.
The southern vibe moved into every salt shaker,
every milkshake and each photograph of
Joe DiMaggio -
hung on the wall. Hundreds at a time.
I must have been around 12 at the time
when the Beach Boys never stopped playing
and the icons that stared at you from frames
whilst you, lost in a hot
and bothered space,
failed to ask if the AC was turned on that summer.
I was going up for another something, asking the waitress
who knew me well—if this place would stay open much longer
but no, she said and turned to wash a glass,
and as a matter of fact I went to sit back down
and waited
for everyone to leave.
II.
The red and white chairs
that acted as the decor for every note
of Rock and Roll—each sliding as an act of personal space.
The changing nature fixed within the pepper shaker
sitting next to the salt—see through it like a magnifying glass
the waitress seems a hundred miles away. Maybe she is.
She’s still washing the same glass.
The times I walked in and the music was loud,
drowning out the noise people make when they try to
communicate with each other.
the air speaks American and the waitresses don’t understand
what the Americans on the other table are saying.
They’re probably talking about the strange way the British People
think this is the American 1950s.
“Oh please!” You hear one say.
“You can’t spell the 50s without Elvis.”
But he’s already played that day.
Maybe they just weren’t there to hear him.
"Hound Dog," "Jailhouse Rock"—only the most well-known ones.
Why was I so dumb as to thinking
they’d play his version of "Rip it Up?"
I couldn’t grasp it, so I left it alone.
The headstones on the walls were a reminder
of those who put us here
and there.
The red framed walls, the olden decor
and the glass door.
Smashed by delinquents whilst the poor man sits on the ground,
outside the restaurant.
Waving a cup,
covered in glass,
dressed like Fred Astaire.
III.
By the time I was 14 I don’t think you heard Dennis Wilson
blast his voice over the speakers near the round tables in the corner
ever again.
He just didn’t fill the air anymore and the music became
slower,
steadier,
almost like it was
classical.
But it wouldn’t last.
The appeal to a newer crowd meant someone else.
And yes they’d tried the 70s,
Freddie couldn’t fill that hot space,
It was music Michael Jackson couldn't call a dance to.
I had
no words left.
But if not them, then who?
Not even The Who, they tried that too.
And over the next nine years I’d go
back and forth from that same restaurant.
Coming back to it even though I didn’t want to be there anymore
like an impaler choked into war.
It was a cold winter nine years’ later and yet everything had changed.
No more pictures of Joe DiMaggio,
Dennis Wilson was given permanent vacation.
And I sat in the middle of the restaurant chewing on gum,
resting the food because the pepper shaker changed.
There was nothing to see when you looked through it now.
Just a waitress
washing the same glass.
The happiness drained from her.
And the room falls silent.
after a while, you’ll leave singing a dirge of some kind.
IV.
But if you ever come back to that same place
no matter whether they play the sorts I don't know.
Or maybe someone is having a good day and Buddy Holly will fill the room again.
You'll see me there.
I'll be waiting for you to fix the photo frames of Joe DiMaggio...
Just a little to the left.
About the Creator
Annie Kapur
190K+ Reads on Vocal.
English Lecturer
🎓Literature & Writing (B.A)
🎓Film & Writing (M.A)
🎓Secondary English Education (PgDipEd)
📍Birmingham, UK
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