Trading Trinkets, Tall Tales, Telling Lies
Downtown any town’s Main street
this town, down
passed a shellacked shiny brass handled
carved crescent moon wooden door of
“The Ancient Mariner”
across the street from an old fashioned Bijou
sequenced white bulb Marquee
Flashing, “Fiddler on the Roof.”
Butted by a brown concrete, steel, Lake Placid Hilton
descending down two flights
of green canopied wooden stairs.
“The Artist’s Café”
lapped white waves of Mirror Lake
reflecting the lights of “The Cottage”
and the excitement of the 1980 Winter Olympics
across from the Lake Placid Club
it’s walls filled with the owner’s original art
bustling buxom waitresses.
Comrade Ivan leaping to his feet touching my pins from Solitude and Brighton
would I care to trade for his shiny Soviet bears
slapping him on the back saying,
“certainly mine were worth a bit more, perhaps
one possibly two martini’s.”
Telling tales till they became martooni’s
The bustling waitress asking,
“Was I, could I be, an Olympic Athlete?”
Me smiling devilishly saying,
“Why, yes,
would she,
care to come to my room.
to view my gold medals from Europe.
No comments:
Post a Comment