HELENE'S PLAIN COFFEE CUP ON MY KITCHEN WINDOW SILL
Filled now with drooping jonquils
It is a marvel of engineering
She gave it to me when she was
gettting ready to move out of her
last home before the abattoir.
...
Ate my Ralston Purina plus blueberries and peanut butter sitting on the front step - plus Vermont Maple Syrup - knowing I would write a poem later.
Beekeeper, Patrick, is swarming his bees, by the way.
An excellent explanation appears on the Santa Clara Extention Service.
...
In a moment I will drink my PEACH TEA from Sister Lynn, mixed with Decaf Green Tea.
Oh, yes, I long for something hot in my hand.
So we ZOOMED last night. One woman made a very big deal about "being there."
You got it! She never showed up.
BUT I did tell a frienda mine and her dad I would get her a poem I had written, one of my favorites.
It's about Otto's Brauhaus which will be sold to become a parking lot.
Rumor or not?
See Joni Mitchell on dat!
A MORNING AT OTTO’S BRAUHAUS
God is crying raindrops
as I pull into the parking
lot, I cannot pay attention
to his grief right now, and
seat myself in the bright
room, next to the window
where God and the rain
have disappeared.
Am surprised at the
table of Koreans
below a mural of a
castle in Rhineland
and push away thoughts
of God crying for the
Nazi-baited population
and the death of my people
The Koreans surprise me,
not because they have ordered
fluffy waffles and various types
of sausage, but, when I look up
from my menu, they have bowed
their heads in prayer.
A God-denier, I like that.
Samantha says she will give me
coffee for free – it is Lucas,
strong
and deep, addictive, if you let
yourself –
free, because I only order the
three egg
omelet with ham and peppers and
two
types of cheese.
I have diabetes, I tell her, and
…..
“I know,” she says. “My husband
has it.” He sticks the needle in
his
big fat belly. “Oh, I have the
fat belly,
too,” – she shakes her head no
“mine’s filled with black and
blue marks” – his is
too, “that’s why I use my butt
and arms,” I laugh.
The coffee goes down easy.
I am thinking of getting
take-out
to sip on all day. What? To have
Parkinsonian symptoms in my
typing hands?
The yellow egg dish arrives
like The Magic Mountain of
Thomas Mann, the onions
are crisp and delicious
as Samantha, in a Heidi of
the Alps dress, with low
cleavage, arrives often
to check on me.
I have come to this faraway
place, not to forgive the Nazis,
but to pay homage to Stephen
and Arleen. We last met here
two years ago, when the seeds
of his cancer were percolating
like hot coffee in his gut
plotting their attack.
Hitler’s attacks were broadcast
all over the world, but
Stephen’s
virus was guarded, its brigadier
general biding his time. A
sadist,
he cared not about suffering,
only about the triumphal march
that was a knock-out, total
victory, that he watched
at Goldstein’s Funeral Home
in Southampton.
Wiping my mouth I stood up,
pushed in my chair, lifted up
my blue hood for the rain,
and walked out.
“Thanks, Samantha,” I
waved, and walked out
into God’s gentle rain.
...
I had spoken there when I was giving programs on New Directions for the ROTARY CLUB. Wrote my notes on a yellow napkin and boy was their coffee GOOOOD !!!!
Attended a presentation there on ELVIS PRETZEL, an Elvis impressionist. My late friend Judy Diaz who was still around found such individuals fascinating.
Hey, I just got home from eating my salad on Scott's front porch.
Birds were dive-bombing past the porch.
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