At Duffy's

This month, in January, I could have been in Davos
on the snow-covered terrain, watching
smoke rise from the cabins; in Davos where
the World Economic Forum went nowhere,
despite the champagne and the red wine,
and upbeat receptions, contrasting
the battered markets and job losses with
a collage of modern-material things.

Instead, due to the usual hamstring pull
of my wallet, I eat my meals with a discount card
at Duffy's, a testing ground for a new trade concept,
where TV screens feature thousands of runners
and runners-up, where cleats and penalties
lift superstars to their dreams, where
the rules are fair and you can see the score.

At Duffy's, Irene, the waitress on heavy legs, chokes
on hoarse words, "Hello, my name is...Oh, it is you
again!" And I question her about the menu,
the pile of steamer clams at the seafood counter,
her kids, her absent husband, the rent she can't pay.
Then, comforted by the short exchange, we both shrug
at our inane words, at the bills, at the procession of woes,
and cheer like two Russians loving abundance and Vodka.


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"Re: Response Poems..."   in "Dew Drop Inn"