Working Apology

Cold wraps around the worn cab.

I reach out and feel your place,

cracked leather still warm

from your heat.  Slouched down,

I watch rain soak the back

of your broad shoulders as sleet pellets

punch holes in the icy lot.

“Casey’s Bar & Grill” flickers red

neon across frosted glass.

Wind whips the restaurant door open;

you slam inside.

Conversation stops.

Knarled fingers grip thick china mugs.

Spilled coffee pools on a sticky counter top

when bodies grudgingly shift over.

Gravely, you sit and give your order.

Shaking off the chill, I slide in next to you.


Like everything else, I am the author, the writer, the poet and all of the content in this blog belongs to me.  What makes all of this work is a mutual respect for craft, and other people’s talent. If you like this or anything else I’ve posted, before you help yourself to my stuff, please ask me first.

What happened to the dog stuff? It’s still here. It’s just that every once in a while, I like to shake things up a bit. Try out new stuff. Polish up some of the old stuff.  You know how that goes. You’re suddenly in the mood for strawberry when all your life you’ve been chocolate.

Or vanilla.

Working Apology is an old poem – one I wrote BK (Before Kid). Which means that it’s got to be at least 26 years old…or more.  I am gearing up to self-publish and I thought I’d test the waters (so to speak) with a different kind of story.

A story that’s even older than “a man and his dog.”  A story about what starts to happen when a man and a woman …well, we don’t really know what happened before this poem, do we? We sure know that something happened because he’s pretty mad.  And, she’s mad too but, maybe not as mad as him.

Could be that she’s conciliatory sorry first because after he hightails it out of the truck, she reaches out to where he was sitting. And touches air.

We do know that this is a big guy – he’s got broad shoulders – and he’s pissed about something because he slams inside that restaurant.  Could be that it’s a working man’s bar and the customers are older men:  their gnarled fingers grip coffee mugs. So, maybe these are old, stubborn men not too fussy about what this place looks like if you consider that sticky counter top.


That kind of mad that bubbles over like boiling water spilling out of a pot on a stove top seems to have calmed down just a bit by the time this guy sits down at that counter to give his order to the waitress.  I shove all of that hidden meaning into one word – let it work just like the whole poem is work for this woman and this man.

Gravely, you sit and give your order.

He’s not mad anymore, but he’s serious.  And, she’s pretty stubborn in spite of whatever it is that happened before he drove them into that parking lot.  She slides in next to him and doesn’t he just go and let her do that?

Makes you kind of wonder what’s going to happen next, doesn’t it?  Well, if you consider that the poem has a few clues in it, you might be able to figure this next part out all by yourself.  [gplus count=”true” size=”Medium” ]

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