Once a month in the ghost restaurant
we bring wine,
we light candles.
Alan (veterinarian) recites a rowdy lyric
about the cloacae
of waterfowl.
Dennis (percussionist, oldies band)
recites from his bar stool about a pretty lass
courted by men at a dance, it’s his daughter,
she saves the last dance for him.
Lynette (social worker) tells how her big brother
tricked her into looking down
the nozzle of a hose.
Bob (physical therapist) sings about fishing
in Canada, then selling all the fish
to Japan.
Joyce (office manager) reads a poem she wrote
about music,
so I (contractor, retired) tell about singing
la la la
to my grandson
who needs constant holding.
We all agree holding is a good thing
but hugging among men is an acquired skill
not taught in Ohio.
Terry (maintenance man) reads a poem
about the secret meanings
of words.
Denise (nobody knows what she does) tells a story
about hitchhiking in France
where trapped in a truck
in the remote alps
with a man’s hand on her thigh
she thwarts the tough guy
by singing songs from The Sound of Music.
Bob washes the wine glasses;
Terry returns the key to its hiding place.
We hug, some of us anyway.
Our little town, once a month.
Literature, home-grown.
Some of the citizens of my feisty little town meet once a month in an abandoned restaurant to celebrate what we broadly define as literature: limericks, songs, cowboy poetry, stories, sometimes a piece of drama. *****? Yes. Serious? Sometimes. Deeply moving? Absolutely.
If I were a secretary keeping minutes of our most recent meeting, they would read like this.