REUNION

I run into her -- of all places --
in a coffee shop at O’Hare.
I’m scanning the faces of people
standing in line the way
I often do and suddenly there
she is. I wait till she finds
a chair, then come up to her place
and try to look casual. "May
I join you?" I say and watch her face
for signs of recognition.

A moment passes. At last they come . . .
the gasp, the smile I still remember.
"Why it’s been years," she says
and bites her lower lip the way
she always did whenever
something pleased her.

There isn’t time for more
than the briefest of biographies.
There isn’t time nor
is it the place to tell
her that when she waitressed
at McHenry’s Diner and I came in
after school and put on my bus boy
apron, cleaning off her tables,
I became an acolyte of Joy,
a love-crazed Worshiper.

THE BOOKS AT OUR HOUSE

take up many shelves
in many rooms
and most of them have been read
or at least dipped into.

Some, though, stand
there waiting patiently
to be taken in hand
like unchosen girls
at the high school dance
hoping for a chance
to change my life.

Other are accusatory.
When I look their way
I hear them hiss
that I have no right not
to let them have their say,
that to keep them in this
unread state is tantamount
to crimes against humanity,
a form of felonious insanity.

Here’s one: Facts from Figures
by M.J. Moroney, a book
about statistics, four hundred
pages of formulas and graphs
(not the kind of thing
you read for laughs)
published in 1951 and
dedicated to his wife.
One can only hope she
had a sense of humor.
Sample chapter: "Association
Contingency, and Goodness
of Fit -- the X2 Distribution."

Not today.
Maybe later.

HOUSE PRIEST

"And Micah consecrated the Levite;
and the young man became his priest,
and was in the house of Micah."
-- Judges 17:12

The painter comes today.
He’ll cover over streaks and
stains we’ve committed
and make it look as though
we’ve led a pure, folly-free
existence here.

Call it our
Immaculate Deception.

WEDNESDAY MORNING, EARLY

There’s a new Perkins in town
just down the highway
from Martins Diner.
I’ve heard it’s pretty nice,
everything sparkly clean,
lots of fancy pancakes,
a sweet-looking girl
who meets you
at the door and takes
you to your table.

Got some competition now
I say to Thelma,
see if I can get her going.
She doesn’t take the bait,
just thunks my coffee
down in front of me
and stalks away. I wait
for her to bring
the half and half.
It doesn’t come.
Thing is, I say real loud
(and say it with a laugh),
from what I hear
the service over there
is great, topnotch.
That’s all it takes. I watch
her body freeze,
then turn my way.
For all I care,
she says, you can take
your hairy butt down there.
That would really make my day.

She doesn’t mean it
and knows I know.

I get up to go.
I think this time
I’ll leave a 2 dollar tip.