Route 1
They say Route 1 went to hell
the day Jimmy slammed his Chrysler
into the The Hilltop Steakhouse.
The twelve plastic cows grazing out front
scattered like candlepins and the car
didn’t stop until it twisted
and toothed around the 68-foot high
cactus sign
After work on Fridays
I used to take Shay
to the Hilltop’s cocktail lounge
and then to one of the five dining rooms
named after Wild West cities. The place
didn’t take reservations or credit cards
so we’d get there early
and drink. She liked the Sioux City
room and told me once
the real reason Thomas Jefferson
commissioned the Lewis and Clark
expedition was to hunt for woolly mammoths.
Once when we were drinking
Bulleit and waiting
for a table, I thought I saw
my wife walk in with a group of girlfriends.
Maybe we shouldn’t meet here anymore
I said, and then wisecracked
some half-remembered quote
about kangaroos and dinner jackets
and being easy to spot
on Route 1
When the Miniature Golf and Dairy Castle
was demolished in Saugus, the land surveyors
saved the iconic orange dinosaur
that had watched over motorists on Route 1
since 1959. After Shay
and the business at The Hilltop Steakhouse
I was just another fossil
in Big Bone Lick.
Tom’s Birthday
On the train from Liège
I think it was Tom’s birthday
because you flirted mercilessly with the boulevardier
at The Milkmaid and the Pot of Milk,
like Perrette in your silk smile and dress
you asked, who are the Sisters from Haske?
And the party didn’t know.
And the street musicians didn’t know.
And the boulevardier didn’t know
nor the barkeep
but because of the mud and the blood
they knew that Bruegel
was nicknamed ‘The Turd.’
O put a finger in your hole, Perrette
—Tom is raving
slipping like a fox through a boutonnière.
It’s not a gloomy day.
There is no snow.
Leon, didn’t you just say you were attacked by dolphins
skinny-dipping in the Meuse.
And perhaps I’m slightly
light-headed, carried away like a hot air balloon
or a milkmaid trading the pot of milk on her head
for a cask of Trappist at quarter to noon.
Relating fables like a stuntman to a princess,
from Breda to Brussels drift bluish-black trees.
Those are some trees, says Tom
and Gretchen agrees.
And we come back to this again and again
long after the train flickers out.
ABOUT THE ARTIST
Damon Hubbs is the author of the chapbooks Charm of Difference (Back Room Poetry), Coin Doors & Empires (Alien Buddha Press) and The Day Sharks Walk on Land (Alien Buddha Press). Recent publications include Revolution John, Don’t Submit!, A Thin Slice of Anxiety, Utriculi, and Horror Sleaze Trash. He lives in New England. Twitter @damon_hubbs
Image generated on Magic Studio
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