Poems by Jen Schneider

ON NEW BEGINNINGS & FLAVORS OF YESTERDAY :: STAY AWHILE

metal cutlery scrapes freshly washed ceramics. all souls hungry. all plates clean. fork tines clank spoon edges. egg whites glisten. yolks spread. grape jam greets whole wheat toast. sliced atop oven browned potatoes. neatly diced. delicately seasoned & seasonal layers blanket & warm. square pats of butter bubble. one. two. three. then melt. three. two. one. cream cheese on biscuits. dark & light liquids change hues. soft clouds smile. then morph. puff. poof.

casseroles cool. cameras click. ballpoint pens scratch. high gloss photos on laminated plastic menus crystallize. sugar cubes stack. coins drop. familiar lyrics linger in air heavy of unfamiliar costumes & customers. charlie brown chatter. lucy calls from the counter. linus reads an oversized text in an undersized corner booth. small circular bowls of salted peanuts. tall cylindrical glasses of icy colas. opposites attract.

comics curate laughter. even as charlie brown oscillates & linus reflects. beagles need to be fed. bagels need to be toasted. houses of all sizes need to be tended. lyrics warm even as they unravel. stories need to be told. grains & grinds absorb all evidence of physical being. inhale. air heavy of favorites. turkey bacon. oatmeal. black coffee. one cream. two sugars. always sweet.

him. either just on or off shift. blue and brown plaid wools. all buttons secure. brown corduroy caps. suspenders hidden from view. always looking up. until up took sides & gravity pulled on suspenders. even as worlds crash. closing time. can no longer stay. can’t go. no more home. he is home. scents of musk linger on fabrics. wools & cottons merge. overcoats find new roles as blankets. shield harsh winds. wind new paths. nighttime walks. ten blocks north. seeking home.

woodstock whistles. eggs sizzle. tunes take stock. all plates clean. all souls hungry. ready to put on a smile. & stay. for a while. for new beginnings.


ARCHIE MET VERONICA AT THE COUNTER & THE FONZ MOVED IN :: HOOKED AT THE 24-HOUR DINER

the soda fountain drew regulars while the booths were reserved for business. mostly convos on races, of horses, arms, and happenstance. i’d rotate from a single red vinyl spiral to a worn booth in the back. the dime-a-song jukebox a draw. the ninety-nine-cent cup of endless coffee also appealing. some days, i’d flip a coin. heads for the booth and an extra song. tails for the counter and a bottomless cup. one sunday, the counter won and riverdale and i took an empty seat. my fingers traced archie as his eyes tracked veronica through pep comics issue twenty six -- a classic, while the coffee, a deep roast, caffeinated -- two creams. extra milk. as i welcomed an extra slice of apple crumble and a scoop of vanilla custard. the spiral to my right spun and unfamiliar boots, black combat, settled. i turned and a gentleman, dressed in a leather bomber, winked. i blushed. florence, from behind the counter, fussed. “coffee or tea?” “a slice of blueberry and a pint of milk for me,” the man replied. he wore a white short-sleeve tee and slim-fit jeans. a fonz look-alike by all means. i worked my crumble while he nursed his pie. the black and white television spun tales of roadrunners and frontrunners. channel ten cartoons plus a plate of politics on the side. the man with style (& styling pomade) expressed an interest in archie. i offered a look. he sensed an opening and put out a hook. i was caught without knowledge, every fonz has his tricks. thirty years and four kids later, he still has the kicks. & he’s still my perfect ten.