By Richard L. Gegick
for Bourdain
I am the king of this mountain
of dirty silverware, lipstick stained
wine glasses, heavy white plates
coated with congealed beef tallow, Bearnaise.
From its peak I can bear witness
to the brutal majesty of an empty dining room,
full thirty minutes before, the evacuation
swift as an air raid drill for an eight o’clock curtain,
the tables trashed with ravaged
cheesecake slices and snifters of Sambuca.
Long after the servers have cashed out
and blow their tips on cheap tequila,
long after the cooks have downed
enough draft beer and snorted enough
to fistfight the whole world,
I will flip the last table with fresh linen,
buff the last glass clear of water spots,
and wander abandoned downtown streets
with only the river rats as my companions.
We will dart from dumpster to dumpster
gnawing on garbage, take refuge under
the al fresco sidewalk tables of the bars,
drag our greasy, black tails over
pavement and brick and concrete,
write our names with our piss
on courthouse stone just to show that
for one brief moment, like you,
we were here, we were alive.
Richard L. Gegick is from Trafford, PA. His poems and stories have appeared in Hot Metal Bridge, Burrow Press Review, Chiron Review, Pittsburgh Post-Gazette as well as many others. His chapbook, "Moons Over My Hammy," was recently released by Zigeller Boy Press. He lives in Pittsburgh where he writes and waits tables.