The Avenues (St. John)
The Avenues, by David St. John (1949-)
Some nights when you’re off
Painting in your studio above the laundromat,
I get bored about two or three A. M.
And go out walking down one of the avenues
Until I can see along some desolate sidestreet
The glare of an all-night cafeteria.
I sit at the counter,
In front of those glass racks with the long,
Narrow mirrors tilted above them like every
French bedroom you’ve ever read
About. I stare at all those lonely pies,
Homely wedges lifted
From their moons. The charred crusts and limp
Meringues reflected so shamelessly —
Their shapely fruits and creams all spilling
From the flat pyramids, the isosceles spokes
Of dough. This late at night,
So few souls left
In the place, even the cheesecake
Looks a little blue. With my sour coffee
I wander back out, past a sullen boy
In leather beneath the whining neon,
Along those streets we used to walk at night,
Those endless shops of spells: the love philtres*
Or lotions, 20th century voodoo. Once,
Over your bath, I poured
One called Mystery of the Spies,
Orange powders sizzling all around your hips.
Tonight, I’ll drink alone as these streets haze
To a pale gray. I know you’re out somewhere —
Walking the avenues, shadowboxing the rising
Smoke as the trucks leave their alleys and loading
Chutes — looking for breakfast or a little peace.
*potions