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One Evening That Lasted Eleven Years

An Experimental Poem

By Annie KapurPublished 5 years ago 4 min read
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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.

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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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