Ukraine, I crane

Ukrainian Waitress at the Pigeon Forge Chop House

Please don’t judge us solely

on our dinner selections

loaded Idaho baked potatoes

versus

heart smart rice pilaf

crocked French onion soup

over

full orders of spicy Buffalo chicken wings

though on second thought

our nagging lamentations

over second guessed choices
photo spreads 

of this or that or the other thing 
blinding glare from slicky-slack

laminated menus-for-dummies

may be a revelation

that beats Gallup, Harris, even Nate Silver. 

Latvian or Polish, maybe Czech

but what kind of arcane

global department of weeding shunts

youth from former Soviet satellite states

to places like:
Branson, Missouri or Pigeon Forge, Tennessee or

the Wind Jammer Restaurant in Copper Harbor, Michigan

where a young woman fresh

from mainland China once took 
our order, unrelenting 
smiles on all faces

smiles for the menu

smiles for each other

smiles for the large woman inching

through the restroom door marked “Gulls”

smiles for the low ceilinged
gunmetal gray clouds

soldiering in from Superior

smiles for four old Finns gumming

pillowy cinnamon buns

smiles for the pair of lenses

missing from the stylish frames

on the beaming face

of our Mandarin speaking waitress

who, as it happened, was

weeks away from wrapping

up a summer stint in the Upper Peninsula

on her way to wintering

over in Chicago

a distinction without

much of a difference. 

“Ukrainian” you say

emphasis on the second

syllable, leveling me with a 2 x 4 
gaze, spade 
of European fatalism

furrowing your brow

“Lviv”, I wager
“seems nice”

followed by a breathless

drive-by of recent Ukrainian history:

a Russian father

perforated borders

a sister in Donetsk

you worry about day and night

here beneath the Aurora Borealis 
caloric motel gag 
of the Smoky Mountain foothills.

What is your opinion of Dolly Parton?

Have you toured the Titanic?

Do you ever get the itch

to stroll the Creation Museum?

questions I would like to ask 
but don’t. Instead 
I order some wine

the Chop House being

the only place around 
to get it by the glass

owing to Byzantine Baptist 
blue laws

that allow
should the mood take hold
one to buy a Mason jar

of pure Tennessee 
moonshine likker. 

“Santa Fe” I say

by way of suggestion

when your tenure here is up

but your heart

seems to be set on Denver. 

Oh well, at least it’s not

the U.P., I think as I take

my first sip
a toast and a smile

for a Slavic expat 
from a famished native. 

Who Gives A Hoot?

Screech Owl

You weren’t fooled

One minute

Late Friday evening  

By uncanny calls to love

Issuing from Audubon’s mobile app

Wise, it turns out

To calibrations

Distinguishing chuffed

Mild Annoyance

From head turning

Cries of Alarm! 

Nor were you deceived

In the least by Stan Getz

Filtering soft and sweet

Through an open window.

You saw right through

My Italian sandals

To piebald Midwestern

Provincialism, eggs  

Doused in catsup  

Playing Lennie

In a local production

of

Of Mice and Men

A mere dream but

One that died hard. 

You may have been

Momentarily flummoxed

By certain discrepancies

In my curriculum vitae

Errors of omission

You may rest

Assured can be explained

By the light

Of a Hunters Moon.

But you weren’t taken in

By the band of tiny angels

Descending to bear me

Home on a thousand

Pairs of gossamer wings

Straining at the tented points

Of all those gathers, gazing

Up in silent reproach

At my receding wan grin. 

I was so sure you’d fall

For the one about

The Romanov heiress who

But for the want

Of your bank account information

Would gladly cut you

In for half her share

Of Faberge Eggs

Failing to take

Into account the speckled clutch

You guard with murderous

Tenacity. 

No rube

No turnip

From a turnip cart

No bigger than a pint jar

Enough to sit

On the front porch

Tucked into shadows

Running a finger around

The rim of this glass

Listening for your call

The one that snookered me

Thinking I’d heard the cry of a loon. 

 

Don't paint it black

A Yellow Door

When I slip out at dawn for the paper

                                                       or

Muscle in groceries from the back of the car

Dog gone all charcoal smudged behind the screen    

Whether losing a few minutes to church

People witnessing like salt and pepper

Shakers from the front porch, galloping heat

Up through the sober soles of their brogans

Lest they forget their toehold on the lip

That rims the eternal lake of brimstone

                                                     or          

Emerging sinners bathed in the honeyed

Liquor of salvation abiding in

A sunset stroll downtown, enticed by a

Niggling alter call we barely make out

over choirs of cicadas, Communion

taken knee to knee at a street café

Coming or going, going or coming

shot as from the barrel of a cannon

                                                      or

limping back in on a wing and a prayer

Only a yellow door will do, perhaps

A snarling lion knocker we’ll ignore

On lazy evenings slow as broken yolk.