the happy furnace cafe
john alan douglas
The overweight heap in apple red overcoat staggered onto the cafe bench across me. His beard was brown with street slush black marks charred his elbows. His pock-marked face was flushed.
Ordering a cafe au lait, he pushed his fat map into mine. Even before he opened a Ustinov mouth, foul ice-cave breath engulfed the entire cafe, scnding early Xmas shoppers home early. Then he spoke.
“Son, I see you are that most unfortunate of
mortals, a poet. Pardon me, career poet.
I give you my entrails in sympathy.
But you should try my line; inert,
comatose 6 months of year, then
each july (JULY mind you!) up
early to start mass assembly
of toys toys toys.
Pah!!”
I looked at him with my best blankness,
then started in “You agonise over so
few work days along the rolling
year -onlysix mere months of
abusing children and even
adults with promises of
plunder - erecting
false hopes. But
I submit a pot
of poetry to
some editor
five times
a day
EVERY day of the year!” To which the red
roly poly givaholic fell down on his
credit cards (only the best) and
crawled on all pudgy fours
out the cafe door
to hell.
And he could be heard all the way down
the icesheet paved with bad intentions:
“happy noel happy noel”
a christmas card to
awaiting furnace doors.
I held out my cup composed of human skin
and asked for more.
