Steak et al.

It must be rib eye.
The price of New York
is absurd even for this day
full of controversy pushing
me to that brink
when the rage
of the contraception debate
brought on by that so called slut
eclipsed the ratification
of gay marriage in Maryland,
those round happy faces
had their two minutes
of fame -- just a ripple
in the storm in the water glass
brewing over the threat
to religious freedom here
at home while two American officers
were killed in the high security area
of Afghanistan during the fury over
the burning of Korans which was
the next to the last straw
that is still to break the camel's back.

I craved the competence
of the steak house where
everything was nothing if
not right.
"How would you like your steak?"
"Medium, pink center."
The regal command is issued,
absolute obedience is assured.
"So it is written, so it shall be done."
The words of the Pharaoh
Yul Brenner come to mind.
The house potato chips arrive
with the fresh baked bread
and the Arnold Palmer tea,
the starched linen napkin
with the heavy silverware
including the steak knife one
can use to defend a castle.

The kinetic graphics
of the financial news
sweeping across the T.V. screen
show the Dow to be rising
like Lazarus, the green arrows
are thick as the grass
at a golf course, this was expected,
it could only be so since
claims for unemployment
insurance had dropped again
and enough heads were busted
in Greece so the drachma was
reasonably expected to stay
in hiding after two thousand
years of changing hands.
The smug forms sit in booths
holding quiet conversation,
the sophistication is irrefutable,
these osobi, (Czech for "persons"
but more at "beings" or "entities.")
are deaf to developments on T.V.
at the bar, the volume does not
reach their ears. They are fortresses
in the flesh with bass boats,
sitting in their temple.

"How's the Reuben sandwich?"
The waitress speaks to my
neighbor at the bar.
The neighbor scowls,
"It's kinda tough ok?"
"Can I bring you another one?"
"Yeah, sure."
She takes the Reuben away
and complains to the kitchen.
The Reuben goes into the trash.
She's bringing my steak
in a rush as if it's famine relief
in Somalia. Good things come
to those who wait --
and the waiting was so very hard.
I make the sign of the cross
as some persecuted Christian,
surreptitiously so as to
respect religious neutrality,
the separation of church
and steak house.
The steak knife drifts
through the tender meat,
now the denouement:
"A-1 or Heinz 57?"
I can't decide as I'm
chewing but I consider
the question seriously,
the full bodied flavor
of the meat would
call for A-1.
"A-1," I say and she
hands me the sauce.
"I'll try to find you
a full bottle."
I take pause then shake
A-1 on my steak.
The knife drifts
through the tender meat
drenched in sauce,
the appetite of a shark
is satiated but not too
quickly. The baked sweet
potato is addressed
with its cinnamon butter.
Exquisite. The blade drifts
through the rib eye
reducing it to fatty carnage
after several strokes
now the surgery starts
removing the bits of meat
from the fat and gristle,
the fat is chewed. Finito.

The waitress takes away
the plate with the efficiency
of a battlefield nurse
and as an afterthought says,
"Did you leave room for desert?"
"Some, what's for desert?"
She brings the desert tray
and there amid the circus
is a sharply cut piece of
chocolate cake standing up
like the cliff of Gibraltar.
It's "ho ho cake" just like
a Hostess Ho Ho but bigger.
I choose Ho Ho. with coffee.
"Let them eat cake" was the
dictum. Okay.
The neighbor got a new
Reuben sandwich.
"The manager agrees that
the meat was tough, sometimes
it comes that way in the
package," the waitress explains.
He takes a bite out of the sandwich
and nods approval. He's working
on the sandwich. The
waitress speaks. "Would
you like a complimentary
dessert?" He nods,
waving his hand with
condescension.
Oh boy, truly the one percent.

I take my time working
on my Ho Ho,
the rich chocolate icing is
thick as asphalt and it is
so thoroughly chocolate.
Everything was right
and the coffee is right.
"There's no need to hurry,"
the waitress said as
I was down to just the coffee.
Indeed, what need
is there to hurry back out
into the pandemonium.


















Poetry by Peter J. Kautsky
Read 707 times
Written on 2012-03-13 at 03:18

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Peter, such a nice blend of sensuality and social comment. Separation of church and steak, brilliant. I loved that there is no sense of impatience in this, that the enjoyment of the meal and the writing seems equal (and the sense of pandemonium seems inevitable, so what's the hurry?). I really enjoyed this.
2012-03-14


shells
Just realised I've put an a in hungry, oops!
2012-03-13


shells
Just loved the runaway commentary this poem brings, both the mundane and the "outside" it made me hungary, but not for the state of our world.
2012-03-13