Breakfast At The Local Diner

And Two More Story-Poems

Issue #13

Heart Sounds

I wake to the sounds
of seagulls coming
through the screen door
of my white bedroom
in a hundred-year-old
hotel in northern Michigan
where Hemingway once
stayed. A cloudy Sunday
morning greets my eyes.
The geese are flying
further north after a winter's
romp down south.
The birch trees are
budding. Time catches 
up with itself. I change
the clocks for the fourth
time in the last ten minutes.
She was my lover during
the reign of Julius Caesar
and my sister on the streets
of seventeenth century
Paris. Why must I 
remember the past
and forget the future?
Why must I dance alone
in the moonlight of her love?
I listen to the sounds
the sun makes as it rises
from its slumber. Sometimes
the wind tastes like ice cream
on a winter morning. I rock
myself to sleep in the cool
air and dream of Lake
Michigan on a Sunday morning.

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Notes

This poem was written in May 2004, when we traveled to northern Michigan to explore possible locations for my daughter's wedding. We stayed the night in a hotel that Ernst Hemingway had once stayed in. I had risen early and sat in a rocking chair listening to the seagulls.

The poem begins in the physical world and shifts to the theoretical world of reincarnation, where I imagine past lives. Then, it shifts back to the physical world and leaves the reader with the possibility that the whole thing might have been a dream.

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Morning Jog

A hollow sun
rises over the raging
river. Sweat drenches
her cheeks as she jogs
north through a deserted
street. Her crystal blue
eyes watch for signs
of an intruder. A bum
lies sleeping in the doorway
of a pawn shop. She spots
two abandoned cars
in a parking lot next
to an empty building.
Her breathing is labored,
difficult. She imagines
her husband still asleep
in their queen-size bed.
His snoring echoes in
her ears. She chuckles
at the thought of him
sneaking into bed last night,
trying so hard not to wake
her, then tripping over
the dog. All hell broke
loose. He had been so
embarrassed. She reaches
the end of the block and
turns right over the bridge.
The sun feels good on her face.

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Notes

This poem contains concrete details of someone jogging in a dilapidated neighborhood. It opens with the possibility that something may happen to the jogger. She is alert to possible danger. Her thoughts take her back to the humorous moment when her husband came to bed.

Joggers think about many things when they run. This short poem briefly explores a jogger's thoughts.

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Breakfast At The Local Diner

On Tuesday of last week
God and I had breakfast
together. He ordered a ham
and cheese omelet with home
fries and a large glass of freshly
squeezed orange juice. I settled
for three buttermilk pancakes
with maple syrup. We talked
about the future of the world
and whether or not He should
destroy the universe He had
created. I laughed at His jokes
and assured Him that the human
race would someday outgrow
its childish behavior and come
to understand the true meaning
of His love. He did not share
my confidence and expressed
concerns between sips of black
coffee about man's inhumanity
to man. Our waitress asked
for His autograph, thinking He
was a movie star or a famous
athlete. He gave it to her
on a stone tablet, and let me
keep the hammer and chisel.
I asked Him how I would die,
and He smiled and told me
not to worry—that he had
my backside covered. We
said our goodbyes after tipping
the waitress a hundred dollars
and paying the bill. God took
me in his long arms and said:
"Keep the faith, My son. Your
happiness is in My hands. I
love you." We parted ways
and promised each other that
we would get together again
before the end of the month.
I stood watching Him fade
into the distance and then sat
down on the sidewalk to begin
my day job—begging for nickels 
and dimes and a kind word.

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Notes

Years ago, my wife suggested that I write about my loss of faith. I grew up attending church on Sunday morning, Sunday evening, and Wednesday evening. Before I was a teenager, I memorized 300 Bible verses and was given the opportunity to attend Bible camp for one week every summer. When I was a sophomore in high school, I committed to becoming a minister. While other boys my age were reading Playboy magazine, I was reading books on religion. By the time I was a senior, I had lost my faith.

Over the years, I have written hundreds of poems about God and faith. This is one of the first ones I wrote and is one of my favorites. I am fond of the surprise ending.

These three story-poems are set in the morning and are filled with concrete details. The details help the reader to visualize the story.

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