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Citadel Luncheonette
I’m beached in the Citadel Luncheonette
with my pinned eyes blinking over minestrone.
Dr. Lester’s acid-yellow light
was one inch from my face then his
blue metal examining ring plumped my eyeball.
Gesture’s important. The thumb and forefinger
lightly touched together: a little bit of jelly
for my toast. The index to the nose: follow with
your eyes while my drops vaporize your
vision like deer in a volcano blast.
Besides Irish, English and Welsh are Celtic, too.
My father was 50 percent Welsh with a black cloud
Mother clicked shut venetian blinds on neighbors
in her measured English way and I love
the droney ancient modal keys:
Songs about dressing a dead wren in
a satin cape, gently laying it down in
a ribboned pasteboard box lined with
gathered crepe, twisting its neck
delicately to the side like
a martyred pope, piling gold rings on
its head, carrying it door to door
collecting coins and
proclaiming a capella that
the King of Winter is dead.
If I’m lucky I won’t wake up
bilious tonight from my carnal dreams.
I’ll make a wiry leap past Lester’s
taupe leather sofa and his wry knee-to-knee verdict
of naturally deteriorating sight
feel out the thickness of quarters in my pocket
lay out six on the counter
and walk dignified through the
snowiness of the Citadel
to even whiter light on Lexington Avenue.
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Peter Bushyeager’s poetry appears in journals that include New American Writing, Hurricane Review, Local Knowledge, Sensitive Skin, Global Poemic, Boog City, and in his book Citadel Luncheonette. He lives in Manhattan with his wife and daughter.
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St Stephen’s Day— Three wren boys in road, Athea, County Limerick, 1947
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Author: Terence Winch
