4 Poems
Fish Fry-a-thon
Plangent body
torquing to the left, then
right, an excited shimmy; like a fish
Bea jumps
when Dee pokes her with the spatula
dripping Wesson.
Bea cleans trout, Dee vaunts
a cast iron pan hissing oil. “De-scale
faster, Bea!”
says Dee, hair like seaweed flying.
Outside, in grass
flecked with dandelions
by the side parking lot, is everyone:
even Sharp
wearing a helmet, he says, “to protect
his glabella,”
Pierre who is prepping
for Mr. America, and the three
Norwegian
tourists on their way to Ogonquit.
Hungry, they’ve come
to the Fish Fry-a-thon
to raise funds for Dee’s Diner’s outstanding
mortgage, gold-
brown sizzling trout sailing onto plates.
In the dining room,
blue floral paper peels
from corners, and hot air blows a polka
through holes scratched
into the back door—Bobby Chipmunk.
Next October,
the Grand Reopening:
seashells paper ironed flat to the walls,
the countertops
upgraded to Magical Lake steel.
They’ll all devour
the Improved Fall Special:
Braised Summer Flounder and Winter Fennel.
Above them,
the ceiling will sag bit by bit.
