Lunch Lines

by: Jonas Specktor

shiver and buzz
all about my skin
hum of the noon hour
at the falafel shop
I sit and try to peel my worry
like the skin of a strange new fruit
salad sits limp at the side
with potatoes, potatoes
and corn
to eat or to plant deep in thawing ground
at a loss for land and finance
the motherland calls
she sends rare taxidermied birds by air-mail
they are wrapped in delicate cellophane
and smell of attics and sandalwood
it’s all in the juice of our ancestors
this waiting-room ballet,
dropped in cans
handled with slight grimaces
knowing looks
chided child
the radio offers overripe bananas
my dry hands accept
these winters are not what they used to be
though the sun hits the windshields at similar angles,
the breeze ruffles shaggy hair
in need of a trim lackluster lunch,
still the best meal of the day,
Mr. O’hara, I concur
a chance to slip away from the dirty streets
heavy arms of the cuckoo
out under the lime green facades
that gather ice and shout down street performers
on the street of cheap gyros and haircuts,
to take a moment
remember discarded things
like twine and wooden toy blocks,
place some fragrant dust
in my front shirt pocket.
say a prayer for those pigeons
antennae all tangled in the glare
a shame, really