Spinnaker’s Lunch Counter

At first when I saw the malt my eyes glowed
at Spinnaker’s Lunch Counter, down the road
a fur piece from Pappy’s general store.
I loved my malt, and I liked the decor
of late fifty’s early sixty’s, jukebox
playing Runaway, time for Bobby Socks
and leather coats, cigarette packs in sleeves.
A red Coca Cola clock on the wall
and over cherry phosphates gushed tell all. 
Waitress wore a Stetson hat, sneakers white
as we relaxed to mind ourselves despite
the fact that we had miles to go ‘fore dark.

Enjoying lunch as we were want, a spark
midday to energize the daily drab
routine so often rudely foists, to gab
or idle wantonly and sip a drink,
or spoon the chocolate and try to think
of untold fortunes that may lie ahead.
The placemat was a county map, in red
a covered bridge so marked as we could see
a snippet of this county’s history.

(Hear the clang, a Spinnaker spatula
  turning burgers, eggs over easy, glad
  to soak in this respite from the world,
  laid back here, flannel shirts a silver stool,
  with elbow room and smiles like a hug
  since out among the rush ’tis cold and smug.)

So when I spooned the last of viscous malt ,
hearkened jukebox Elvis Jailhouse Rock, all
the fine nostalgia evoked this yearning
of things timeless, eras so enduring.


31 Lines 
Writer’s Cramp Winner
7-24-19