Lunch in the Hudson Bay Cafeteria

artwork: ralph murre

Lunch in the Hudson Bay Cafeteria

by Don Schaeffer

Built at a time when air was cheap

it has more space than it needs.

Solemn echoes surround the flags and

matrons dressed in white

employed to cook and mother.

A large symbolic paddle wheel

clatters comically on its ancient motor

beside a pale antique diorama of the river.

We bring trays

of veal and trifle.

The ceiling is a formalized caprice

like a stage set in animated fantasy,

with ceremonious lamps somehow made friendly

laughing to themselves as they sprout

from roots in the broken clouds.

~ first published in Lily Literary Review (2006)

A Compendium of Daydreams

artwork: ralph murre

A Compendium of Daydreams

by Don Schaeffer

I forget where I

left the car, and forget

where I live.

I run crazy through the streets

while time slides away on greased rails.

Those who miss me

wait.

A party forces my choices.

I grin for some of them

and leave the rest in the cold.

They wait for me, not present to see,

not knowing I am gone.

We emerge from the battle,

my friends

seeping away into the ground.

I am joyous

even while they

say farewell to the grass.

~ first published in Loch Raven Review

Not Bringing Souvenirs

photoart: ralph murre

Not Bringing Souvenirs

by Don Schaeffer

Although she remains

as a small changing wavelet

through which the particles pass,

everything around her

flows away, all the

material nuggets.

I can't bring

tokens of a home

she can't connect again.

Even the molecules of

her lifetime

scatter.

~ first published in Loch Raven Review

My Epic

photo: ralph murre

My Epic

by Don Schaeffer

Like the beginning of a big

movie, the field of the eye

spans the earth, quickly

narrowing into a city

and street.

From the sweep of the planet,

it devolves into

a stage set.

We take

this entire house

and wear it down

to one crowded

corner.

~ first published in The Argotist Online

Bennie

artwork: ralph murre

Bennie

by Don Schaeffer

Just earning a living;

I look at his hair, thin

but he owns it.

When I see how he tries to part it

my heart opens.

There is a rim of something moist

and the grease has

spread to his shirt.

I decide I can forgive him for that.

I suppose he will go home

sometime where it's dark and

solitary. He will

wash and run

his hand over his scalp and

put those precious pants

over a chair, sink onto some kind of bed

and close his eyes.

~ previously published in Tryst