Shillington by Carl Kaucher

At Harding Avenue,

bumbling past broken sticks, a dirty paper plate

and a little patch of crusty old snow,

I came upon the old High School

now remodeled and adorned 

with an array of security cameras

that thankfully were not there back on that day

when Steve M. drove up to the lunchroom door

with a case of beer in the trunk

to pick up the crew for a big Woo Hoo

up at Shillington park.

But as for now, in the now

the ground is well saturated to a slop 

from a steady January rain all morning 

and in my vagrant like stumbling

I slip into a muddy puddle

soaking my shoe to a cold squishy squash.

The shoe is still somewhat squeaking

when I cut in the side door at Flannigan's pub

a few blocks further away.

Luckily the room is a noisy and bawdy affair

of loud voices and bad music permeating the air.

Sitting down to observe all the posturing 

and imagery involved in making the scene 

but not for one as me with squishy shoes,

cold feet, a red runny nose and fogged up glasses.

I just don't fit in between double shot guy

and the coupling couple Googling beside me.

Along comes a woman furnishing free samples

of an ice cold pilsner in small plastic cups

from some brewery in San Diego.

The beer tastes pathetic and gross 

and the grimace on my face causes her to move on

so I miss out on the free pint glasses 

she gives to everyone else but me. 

So be it, so I beat it 

cause all I want to do is leg it

and fumble around in the world.

Later, under the care of Dr. Rick Marshall IPA

at another location of libation,

I again study all the gestures and intimations

of the character and condition of the human situation.

Overhearing the conversation of the couple beside me,

I wonder just how it ever happens 

that the sexes can stay together

given the, oh what the hell do I know,

differences.

It just seems odd given the points of view,

the implications and intimations 

indicative of "till DEATH do us part".

I consider this in part 

because I wanted to use the word indicative.

Hell, I am a writer and cannot even describe

the sinister shadows creeping 

by the side of the road

making my way back to the car

a mile away too far after I left the bar.

I am becoming one with the frost

in the land of the loathsome and lost

and my foot has now frozen off.

                         

Carl Kaucher is a poet, photographer, and urban explorer who lives in Temple, Pennsylvania.  He is the author of two chap books, "Sideways Blues ( Irish mountain and beyond )"and most recently "Postpoemed" His work has appeared in numerous publications and on line. The writing explores his experiences wandering urban spaces near his home and throughout Pennsylvania. Using his photography and writing, Carl has been exploring the overlooked places and documenting the chance occurrences that happen to him and by doing so gives us the opportunity to reflect upon those similar events happening in our lives also. https://www.facebook.com/CarlKaucher/   and on instagram @Carlkaucher.