Poetry Wednesday Revisited

I have had a few poems cooking and this is a first draft. It’s been a long while since I had the time or inclination to write; there’s been too much going on in my life. I began the poem last night and have edited it about 20 times so far. It’s never finished!

Friday Night on Bell

1

Muni Meter

The Muni Meter was broken.
No need to feed coins or cards
said two young women, long hair and busty.
They were on their way
up Bell to hit the bars.
What will they drink?
Who will drink them up?
It’s Friday night and I begin to hear bar noise
from blocks away that will continue until morning.

2

Abdullah

It is seven p.m. and
we are driven by hunger and thrift
armed with a five-dollar coupon.
Laila, on Bell, is open, and though we thought
we were going to the Greek restaurant a ways down,
we cross the street and stand in front, curiously
waiting for the lure.
We look through the windows
at table cloths
and place settings
and linger at the posted menu.
There is no one seated inside.

A young man comes to the door
and says “hello.”
He has very white teeth.
(Fear strikes: The restaurant is empty,
how good can it be?)
But our groaning guts shove us through the door
and we choose from ten ghostlike tables draped in white.

I ask, “what’s good?”
The young man, Abdullah, with dark golden brown skin
and broken English
points to a picture.
I can’t make out the dish so
I decide on a lamb shank and
my index finger locates the words to
give Abdullah his bearings.
We wait in the silence that is Friday night at Laila.
The water is icy cold, Croton Aqueduct:
l’eau de NYC Gods.

The young man retreats behind the bar,
the wall behind him decorated with mirror shards
on a red background from the 1960s.
He smiles
then turns the big screen television to
“Wheel of Fortune” and looks for our approval.
It is beamed our way via satellite
from Turkey.
There is a dark haired version of Vanna White.
As she turns the letters to words we don’t understand,
Abdullah ventures into the kitchen then approaches
our table and in halting English reports,
“We-don’t-have-lamb-shanks.”

I am getting agitated by pending famine
and dip my pita into a red spicy sauce.
And wait. A man peeks out from the kitchen
at the only two customers who are becoming
suspicious and delirious in anticipation of what might arrive.

There is a little stage off to the side;
above it, against a white background are black, dancing,
hand painted musical notes. A local paper
says there is a belly dancer on Friday and Saturday nights.
There is only Abdullah.

The food arrives and is hot and colorful;
chicken kebobs rest atop my bright, light reflecting salad,
while a pool collects beneath and
grilled peppers and onions, marred by char
sit nearby, shiny, on a small white dish.

Abdullah brings the check and we hand him the coupon.
“What-is- this?,” he asks.
We try to explain. “We give you this,
you take five dollars off the bill.”
I am using sign language
in the foreign country of my neighborhood.
The kitchen man tells Abdullah the voucher is only good
for pizza, from up the block. The news is reported to us.
We point to the name of his restaurant on the coupon list
and he shrugs and says,
“I think I am going to cry.”
We adjust the bill for him, over the mostly empty plates
and he smiles his white teeth, while
the wheel of fortune is spun on the Turkish-talking-TV.

He is a student, Abdullah, who never heard of
The Empire State Building, who arrived two days ago,
and here he belongs to no one.
We spend ten minutes explaining and instructing.
He seems younger with every word
as he offers us his hand in a thankful shake.

We leave thinking we should adopt him, protect him,
buy him city maps, hand him bus routes, explain the
subway and then we hope
he doesn’t end up a lamb kabab
on someone’s oily plate.

*****”(Wheel of Fortune is like a variety show in the Turkish version. The game almost seems secondary.)