Poems by S.A. Gerber.
Al Fresco
The jagged street corner
provides a brief respite.
I am chewed up and
spit out by the sidewalks.
Both weary and leery of
trains, busses, and all
methods of ‘road tripping’.
Back in “los angel city”,
downtown to be exact.
(Madness, it seems, has
always migrated West).
In the alley I find a seat.
Back against an abandon
warehouse, I sip what’s
left of my pint with Mort.
Someone coming out of
“The Pantry” gave him their
doggie bag, and we split
pork roast and fried potatoes.
In this down and out version
of ‘Al Fresco’, Mort is a man
of taste and largesse.
We finish off with red wine
he purchased for 89 cents,
and my last two cigarettes.
Leaning back against the
warehouse, facing the
unseen Pacific Ocean,
both silently cursing the
choices we’ve made, yet still
enjoying the calm, winter night.
Could be worse…
this could be Minnesota—
freezing our ‘sacks’ in
downtown Duluth.
The pork could’a been dried out—
We could be alone…
yeah.
Could always be worse.
One More L.A. Short Take
Ten thirty-four pm—
still sipping at my
after dinner cappuccino,
in this upscale
Beverly Hills eatery.
Been sitting a long time…
waiting for the check.
The manager approaches…
says he’ll take us whenever
we are ready.
Our waiter, it seems,
had a late night audition.
Promise of Paradise
I see the cheated.
I watch with sadness,
with a “Day of the Locust”
kind of irony, the folk
who came to California,
aspirations and delusions
aplenty, and tragically
had to settle for far less.
Every secretary is an actor
along with every waiter;
every cabbie has a script,
and all telemarketers are
would or want-to-be producers.
The ride in compact-Japanese
‘limos’ to ten-plex ‘mansions’
where they attempt escape
by any means available.
What becomes the hardest
to erase and the most painful
to endue, is the final realization
that not everyone with talent,
who saves their pennies to come,
hits the target.
Most promises of paradise lay
as faded and broken as the
old ‘back-lot’ facades.
Nathaniel West knew—
John Fante knew—
Bukowski knew.
They braved the trail only to
stop to yell out a caution
over their collective shoulders.
They knew.
Poems by S.A. Gerber.
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