The Poetry Marathon

First family gathering at the new house. First house.

Frank Sinatra and Italian opera playing through the television.

Stories about renovating, cleaning, patching, painting.

Turning a house with potential into a home.

Dave and Ronnie, Ronnie’s sister and her sweet daughter, Rich and me.

Anthony, Michelle, and 3 year old Castiel. We call him Pete,

Running, giggling and squealing around the table.

Playful stories and recollections of

Antics and sibling pranks.

Cheese for every taste. Gluten-free crackers for actual Celiacs.

Vegetables and fruit.

Huge platters of steak, sausage, chicken, and shrimp.

Flour-free dessert.

Tasty Vignole wine from Oklahoma,

Carried to New Jersey for such an occasion.

Enough food to feed the whole block.

Enough affection to feed the neighborhood.

Huge plates of love and happiness that only appear

With the feeling of belonging, that is Family.

By Sue Storts

08/13/2016

A thirty four dollar steak will

Always taste better than a twelve dollar steak,

But

A twenty nine dollar Restaurant Week steak will

Always taste better than a thirty four dollar steak.

A baked potato on fine china will

Always taste better than a baked potato on a paper plate,

But

Corn chips will

Always taste the same on china or paper.

A fine red Rhone blend will

Always taste better in a glass,

But,

No buts about it. It doesn’t belong in plastic or paper.

Always pour it in a Riedel or Spiegelau, if possible.

By Sue Storts

08/13/2016

Well-padded young woman

Sits alone in a famous fancy restaurant.

A meal before her,

She nibbles, chews, pauses,

Scribbles in a notebook,

Discreetly takes a picture of the meal with her phone.

Thin, well-dressed young woman

Accompanied by a helper in a casual diner.

Six entrees set before her.

She carefully cuts, tastes and arranges the food,

Stands up on the seat,

Clicking pictures from all angles with her Nikon.

Oblivious to their surroundings,

It’s all about the food.

The appearance of the food.

Their opinions of the food.

Helpful purveyors of information and self-marketers.

A culture of impressions and beliefs.

By Sue Storts

08/13/2016

We were here before you were born.

Fewer cobwebs. Someone dusted.

Sawdust on the floor.

Pot- bellied stove for cold winter nights.

Memorabilia, pictures, flags,

A Who’s Who and What’s What of Manhattan.

Where Abe Lincoln held Bible Study

And I first felt old when I didn’t get carded on my birthday.

We talked to the couple from D.C. who owned a restaurant,

And the first responder firemen.

The young couple from Brazil who loved American football and hated socialism.

The older couple who came into the City on Sundays.

The English teacher from Manhattan College,

Who we wanted to fix up with our son.

We heard a bagpipe concert in the afternoon.

Watched the Mets win Game 6 of the World Series.

2 Lights and 2 Darks…Again….Again….Again…

….Prompted singing  Puttin’ On the Ritz in the Port Authority Bus Terminal,

Homeless audience parting like the Red Sea.

The best lamb sandwich I ever ate.

Crispy saltines, a plateful of cheddar and onions.

Mustard that will knock your socks off and make your nose run.

Friends meet. Strangers become friends.

2 Lights and 2 Darks…Again…Again…Again…

By Sue Storts

08/13/2016

Large cavernous room.

High, vaulted ceilings.

Wood floor.

Metal and plastic.

Tables and people strategically squished.

Maximum efficiency and profit.

Loud music with exciting beats.

Wha_ ___ you o_der?

What?

What did you order?

An individual free range, organic, gluten free pan pizza.

I’ve ___rd those ___ rea___ _ood.

What?

I’ve heard those are really good. I ordered

The grass fed, low fat special chef’s salad.  

Lunch rush pace quickens.

Tables fill with gourmand patrons.

Kitchen yells and sizzles.

Dishes clank and glasses ping.

Voices rise in volume

To be heard above the din of diners,

The cacophony of customers.

Above the noise and frenzy

A lone voice cries out.

Let’s get out of here!

Fork in hand, he leads the procession

Of trembling, overstimulated followers

To a quiet park.

Silence broken only by the twittering of birds

And the chewing of food.

By Sue Storts

08/13/2016

That guy got our table. I hate siting in the middle.

Trade places with me. I don’t want to sit with my back to the door.

Great! Right next to the family with the baby.

It’s too loud in here. I hate it when all those women come in.

See that guy? He insisted on holding the door open for me.

He’s a f*ckin’  Republican.

His wife looks like she just ate a lemon.

I guess I’ll have the usual. I don’t want to scare my stomach.

Why do they put News on the TV? Why do you watch that crap? It’ll rot your brain.

And the Sports Channel. Who cares about golf? Baseball’s the only game worth watching.

Food’s here.  Looks good.

The yolk’s too runny.

Sh*t! I dropped it on my clean shirt. I just put it on this morning.

Hear that girl’s voice at the table behind you?

What do they call that, fry? Vocal fry?

Her voice is fried better than these eggs.

I like the corned beef hash better at the other place.

The coffee’s decent here, though.

You finished?

I’ll pay the bill. You start the get-away car.

I left the tip on the table.

 Thanks. Enjoyed it.

Take care. See you next week.  

By Sue Storts

08/13/2016

Wanted:

Attractive Arian woman to taste and eat delicious, well prepared food.

Dine in the world’s finest European restaurants.

Must like expensive beer, wine, and vegetables.

Meet interesting and important people.

Travel and clothing allowance.

Become part of a world- wide movement.

Must have clean health record and undergo extensive physical exam.

Must be willing to sacrifice for the greater good.

Low incidence of death.

By Sue Storts

08/13/2016

All good cafes have a Stinky Guy.

He sits at the counter.

Same frayed plaid sports jacket,

A sweater under it in winter.

Carries a stained cloth bag.

Sits at the same counter stool.

Orders 2 scrambled eggs, 2 pieces of bacon and toast.

Reeks of the street,

Truck exhaust, gutter filth.

Skin left to its own devices,

Without water, soap, toilet paper.

Grimy fabric helps insulate other patrons

From his noisome frame.

Only the waitress gets close.

He gobbles and mumbles,

Holds his fork like a shovel.

He eats alone.

Pays in cash and tips well.

No eye contact or acknowledgement.

We all like it this way.

By Sue Storts

08/13/2016

Hungry.

Check the mercury chart before ordering that fish.

Too much arsenic in brown rice.

Beef sirloin, not the mad cow kind.

Roast turkey without salmonella, please.

Were those rotisserie chickens fed antibiotics?

Carbonara? Too risky. Those eggs are barely cooked.

Did they wash the Waldorf salad three times?

I’ll have the non-Dirty- Dozen fruit salad.

Do you see any pesticides in that peach cobbler?

Green salad, without the e coli. Not even on the side.

She wants some growth hormone and antibiotic free milk.

I need a glass of wine. Hold the organophosphates.

Some distilled spring water in glasses, not BPA plastic. Thanks.

Still hungry.

By Sue Storts

08/13/2016

Dark purple and red,

Island sunset in the garden.

Smooth and thin-skinned.

Heirloom. Royalty. Expensive.

Nestled between creamy mozzarella and bright green sweet basil,

Drizzled with thick, sweet balsamic vinegar.

Salad, appetizer or entrée.

Verde charred and black.

Pity poor Hatch.

Common and cheap.

Socialist vegetable for the masses.

Stuffed in peasant patties of tasteless corn and flour.

Afterthought, poured over fried chips.

Never dessert.

All vegetables are equal, but some vegetables are more equal than others…

Some vegetables are fruits.

(Thanks George Orwell)

By Sue Storts

08/13/2016