Canters,
Fairfax
while on a
standing-room-only
city
bus stogged with
indolent
soaked-coated
sleepwalkers
I wobble &
hold
on to the unctuous
steel
bar, white-knuckled
my
shell whacks abruptly
against
bulging back-packs
&
my knees knock against
some
poor schmuck’s knees
preventing
him from being
able
to do his crossword
in
peace to escape I day-
dream
of a late-night hang
at
Canters, Fairfax
Los Angeles
from
just the week before
waiting
on a friend to wind
her
way slowly down from
the
perfumed and precipitous
Laurel Canyon
I
sat alone in a moon-shaped
mid-century
booth under the
hue
of sputnik lights sipping
pink
lemonade deciding what
to
order
I considered thick-cut
steak
fries but you can literally
have
french-fries anywhere so
I
sprung for an order of stuffed
kishka
with gravy & a bowl
of
mish mosh soup – the giant
matzo
ball was impressive but
the
serving was a little chintzy
on
kreplach
my ornery orange-haired
waitron
mused drolly they have
served
over 10 million matzo balls
“LA’s best since 1931”
she quipped
I
made sure to tip her well when
my
comrade finally arrived with
a
few other Hollywood dolls in toe
all
glittery eyed & sunset stripped
to
whisk me off to a rock show that
kept
us wild & free until the wee
hours
of the morning only to land
back
at Canters in the same moon-
shaped
booth eating
Huevos Rancheros
while on a
standing-room-only
city
bus replete with their drooped
shoulders
& dripping hoods
I dolefully hanker for
my
feet to trace the Venice Beach
canals,
squiggle on the back of
postcards
addressed to the envious
banter
with the Rainbow-ed elite
&
fall asleep listening to the Pacific
splashing
& the seagulls sing
instead
the
hiss of wet brakes & a collective
sigh
***
I’ve been working on this poem for
several days. It’s dedicated to those dear few who frequent and belong in the
air of Los Angeles. I hope to one day inhale it with them. For now, a poem.
In propinquity,
Nic
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