David Reuter’s most recent poem to appear here was “Ghost Story” (November 2019).

Night at Frank’s
By David Reuter

What matters is what hides behind
the neon entrance glowing cheap
on dusky autumn days.
The nipping wind walks on a dancer’s toes
that no one cares to note.
The pointless piles make heedless protests
at the irrelevant edges
where rainbow casted clumps,
discarded in the deepening dark,
cackle an acrid lackluster tune.
I almost feel the wicked chill
that sustains my fragile back.

The steaming sausage teems on floured slices
birthed inside the oven’s girth.
Sauce swims languid in the pitted center
while indolent cheese overflows the banks.
The doubled coupling creams together
in a married mélange
between the ridged paper plates.
The fragrance of this blended brew,
perfume on a proffered collar,
finds the hidden space
that moves my lucid mind.

They slide like cogs slipping on grease
across the tiled floor
while aproned men flit in deft shifts
before the great metal god
that births its bounty well.
The impotent swells can’t break past the gate
where we conjoin our communal space.
Heaven is people.
The helpless husky night can’t blight
the things we bring
into this blended sight.