Silent Witness
The people who eat at the Pressroom in Lancaster
go there to be seen.
I enter a room full of suits and silks,
and sit one booth behind
a classic gentleman with a woman.
Colleague? Wife? Fuck?
Familiarity of silence says wife.
They eat anonymous, insulated.
I hear whispers or nothing.
No word of theirs enters my booth,
yet they sit two feet away.
No words betray secrets,
I don’t enter their life.
A glad handing man intrudes on their lunch,
asks permission to pay homage,
"So glad to see you again,
your work is amazing,
we owe you so much,
I haven’t seen you around town for awhile,
but can see from your tan you’ve been traveling."
"Yes," answers the mannequin - he speaks!
"Yes," he repeats, "We're just back from Mexico."
The congregant continues a litany of courtesies,
departs with an energetic handshake,
then calls back, "Don’t be a stranger,"
never once addressing the invisible woman,
stiletto tall, slim, well-gymned and elegant.
So little sound does this couple make,
I never hear them depart,,
they take their locked world with them.
Wearing Friday casual on Tuesday,
I pay for my meal with a gift certificate,
I got the free lunch I came for.
***
Plain Jane Regulars
After Edward Field’s “People who eat at coffee shops”
People who sit in bars don’t talk,
their glazed eyes stare at brew.
Silent regulars at Plain Jane
slump on chairs
stitched in a row,
from open to close
seven days a week.
The only sound, a small tv
over the bar blasts sports
no one watches.
Men face the door,
backs to the wall,
eyes downcast,
shoulders collapsed.
Stick limbs protrude from bellies
on the way to the floor.
Blank eyes click up in unison
when anyone enters,
fix on an intruder
until she leaves.
Six mushrooms in bar soil
barely stir when glasses lift.
They are like blow-up-dolls
clothed the same.
They wear long sleeved shirts
summer and winter
and would make good scarecrows.
Outside, a sandy lot with pot holes,
no car is parked but mine
on this remote stretch of road.
Where do the regulars come from?
How do they get there?
They emerge out of the pine barrens
where Jersey Devil lives,
lost souls of the drowned
cast out by the ocean.
***
Groundhog’s Turn
Dedicated to Sister Clare McNerney
The new house has a yard and porch
I plant tomatoes in pots, groundhogs feast
No more tomatoes
Next I try wine kegs
A critter climbs into the barrels
No more tomatoes
I wrap wire mesh around kegs
One scales the fence, drops in and gorges
No more tomatoes
My husband builds a plant shelf off the deck
It’s seven feet off the ground
We eat tomatoes
Plump heavy red orbs
Sweet juicy mouthfuls of summer
They are delicious
But pests gobble the flowers
We set a live animal trap, relocate them over Toms River
Another muncher moves in
No matter what I do
we have an excess of vermin
There has to be a better way
I drive to Stella Maris Retreat House
Sister Clare tends their grounds
She’ll know what to do
Before the visit
I stop by her organic garden
Romas, Cherries, Big Boys flourish
I ask Sister, “How do you control woodchucks?”
She smiles and says, “They have to eat too,
we have enough to share.”