Corner Café

I

It was a small, tickling idea in the back of her mind. It was a dream so close to her heart she never noticed it clinging there. It just moved with her through the day, through the years of working in various restaurants. She’d put in her time until she could no longer stand the management, then move on to another place. She was making money. She was trading a service, relaxation to others for their dollars, a paid ‘mother’ to businessmen or first dates or families with a bunch of kids needing a break.


II

The green leatherette booths that lined the café had thousands of people occupy them over the years, thousands of conversations about misinformed current affairs, what homework was due tomorrow, which bitch he was fucking now. Thousands of people from every station of life. Donny Osmond ate here once, a little reflected glory, a story, something to talk about when the conversation about the weather was exhausted and the people didn’t enjoy enough of the same television programs to share their exasperation over the most recent plot developments.


Continue reading “Corner Café”

Ghost Inside

You can’t look away
What is that?
A search for bad intent
An attempt to read my thoughts
A calculation of who I am
In relation to who you are

The ghost inside is often hidden
Most people seem to wish
Their light inside would die
Or they let it die
Or allow someone else to kill it
As if that final resignation brings peace

A deaf man told me once
I am impossible to read
But the staring into the eyes
It is a little strange
You simply have my attention
There is no ill intent here Continue reading “Ghost Inside”

Philosophic Tragedy

Time flows in one direction
It cannot be stopped
It cannot be reversed
You decide to stop resisting
To be happy
Or at least at peace
Having known so little peace
So what then when
Something you want
Someone you need appears
Do you move toward them
Do you wait for them
To move toward you
What if you both float
Stare at each other
Wait for the other to speak
Unable, unwilling, afraid
Opportunity to love
To be loved, lost
To some idea that fighting
For what really matters
Doesn’t matter in the end

-Copyright C.M. Mounts, March 2017

Something Worth Letting Go

“How can you stand to lose it all?”
That is the refrain on repeat
As if clothing and the coffee maker
Had some deep meaning
Deserved my grief

I suppose it is the fruits of my labor
But fruit rots
Like my body
Like flowers on graves
For those I love

Time is slipping away
Always passing
All that stuff is just shit
All that money is just green paper

I know too life without green paper
It is so mean it drives us to spend
One third our lives in its pursuit

But my dresser did not hug me
My shoes did not comfort me

When it all became too much
When life’s edges tore at me
Made me ragged
Beyond my ability
To bear my grief

It is all ash now
Blowing in the winds

-Copyright C.M. Mounts, January 2015

12th Month

Light from the full moon reflects blue off the crystalline ground.
In the distance, I see black soiled hillsides where
Construction has ripped the trees from the ground

Leaving the woodland creatures to find homes elsewhere
In our white dusted trees, in the forests to the west
I walk up the hill through the drifts and pass the last in a line
Homes that glow warmly from the strings of carefully placed lights

There in soft cold air stands a stag, statuesque, and unreal
As I stop, we assess each other for a few moments

Why should this majestic beast bearing
A full rack of horns ever fear me
So weak and slow by his comparison

As I continue on, his tail raises its warning flag
He leaps through the yards
Through what is left of his former forest home

I am left alone in the night
My hot breath billowing white clouds around me

-Copyright C.M. Mounts, December 2003

Glamorous

Friday morning started precisely at 7am for Abigail Rudd, as did every morning at Acme Chemical for the past six years. She parked her Volkswagen in the exact same spot and plodded to the front door to start her day managing the front office. Some of her co-workers sat on the loading dock with coffee and cigarettes before their shift. They would watch her pass and say “Good morning” to her. She would say “Good morning” back and there ended their conversation.

Abby was round, the shape and color of a dried gourd but with better skin. Although painfully shy, she wore fashionable patterned skirts as if someone had meticulously painted that gourd. They swung across her wide backside to the delight of some of the more lonely loading dock crew. She had a clumsy gate and kept her arms outstretched as if she were trying to maintain her balance. She had delicate hands and held them in a peculiar way- with her wrist bent, thumb and index finger pinched together, the rest of her fingers fanned outward in the shape of a bird’s wing scooping the air, trying to take flight. Continue reading “Glamorous”

Lady of Green Glen

Black cold night falls
Orange street lamp alights
Snow
It reflects
Illuminates the glen

She appears
Trick of the light
Shadow
Crouched, naked, pale
Porcelain legs

Black hair cascades
Hand covers her mouth
Worry
Fear of discovery
Under the jungle gym

Apparition of a woman
Stands only at night
Frozen
Fades at dawn
Until next dark

-Copyright C.M. Mounts, October 2003 (revised February 2017)