Lunch at the Club

Serve from the left and clear from the right--
O!, that our lives could be that simple
and quiet. We stand erect, heads held high,
side towels bleached, as members
enter our stations, shuffling from age
and terrible anger. Their briefcases
are handcuffed like zeppelins to thin wrists,
and they coax sweets and martinis from us.
Akron’s air is sawdusty and dark.
We perfectly balance the bread knives
as we take confused orders, feeling small
and lost. We’d prefer long-necked women
and picnics with brie and chardonnay.
Instead we hear complaints
about shaky stocks, recessions,
faulty air conditioners, workers
going back to slums with bigger paychecks.
Our members idly threaten to move south,
factories, barrels, and all, the heat
to grow inside their heavy and hesitant wives.

In ten minutes we are full. Dishwashers
go on strike, busboys suddenly appear stoned,
someone dropped au jus into the kiwi garnish
and the surly cooks no longer speak English.
Everything about us sags: we were meant
for different roles. We gather
around the coffee machine, whispering
“Let’s get the hell out of here.”
We want Americana. We need to count cows
and billboards, to see green barns
lean into the wind. Outside,
the black Cuyahoga barely burns
and Opportunity Park’s factories
ooze steam. One man screams for meat,
“Now!,” and another coughs “cocktails”
at us like a smokestack. In an hour
we’ll have beer, slippers, and peace, but now,
like stock cars drivers on speed, we plunge
on, dragging deeply on Pall Malls, hiding
wet shirts and panicked hearts. Some of the tables
begin to sigh. Others leave.
The itchy-fingered managers
review past applications. We are no heroes.
We must first crumb the white tabletops
and then we’ll put our lives in order.
A Common Pleas Judge asks for his fifth coffee--
we drop the pot on him and his date;
kneeling to wipe, begging forgiveness,
we steal a sip of his lukewarm red wine.