Shrewsbury Street

Shrewsbury Street

I suppose all that I really want some days
is to walk into a corner market
with a lunch counter and a juke box
order an ice cold Coke
and listen to men talk about baseball
faulty starters and local politics

If you think I’m kidding I swear that I am
sincere as this is a kind of American zen
I can practice and not feel entirely phoney

Even though it’s a wish I probably picked up
from some novel or old film
and though I’m sure to be disappointed when
it isn’t as photogenic an experience as I mean
it to be, it still won’t matter

There’s always the clatter
of coffee cups and faux porcelain plates
in an old diner
on Shrewsbury Street in Worcester, Mass
which I do remember

A diner with 6 booths
and hometown brewed Polar root beer
where you could order a plate
of Boston baked beans
a wedge of pie and refillable coffee
and the short order cook
who was a card
would let you stay late
talking about what a good man was
so long as he got a few words in
and you managed not to praise the Yankees.

Jeremy Nathan Marks

This poem has recently appeared at Ariel Chart: