Reflections on The Chief’s Poetry Forum
The rain way pouring down on the roof as I took my morning bathroom visit. I knew we were to have storms later in the day, but I didn’t think it would be so bad, so early.
At 11 am, our grocery delivery was scheduled, so there was an excitement in the air. The idea of having all your groceries delivered is almost too much to imagine. Last night, Mom and I filled up our virtual grocery cart from her office. We picked the Asiago Cheese bread we are addicted to, and all the things we would normally write on a list and usually forget on the kitchen counter before going. We used to actually make it into a game, to see if we ended up getting all the things on the list that remained at home. We always forgot something and added something we didn’t have on the list.
Not this time.
It seems so luxurious and fru-fru to have your groceries delivered, but it was worth it. Mom was so excited, she seemed somehow lifted from below. Like she had a virtual Beyoncé hair-fan following her around, causing her hair to to dance around her face.
She exclaimed, “I’m so excited, I could pee!”
She will probably disown me for printing that, but it was worth it.
It was like Christmas in April.
I would have paid twice the delivery fee (which wasn’t too bad) to see her intense glee at the delivery.
Despite the rain, the woman who delivered our groceries was friendly and happy.
Within a few minutes of her leaving, we had all the groceries put away.
Not bad for a Blue Tuesday.
I still have 28 minutes.
When I was in college, from 1990-1996 (yes, I took the scenic route), I had a group of friends I made in poetry class that I dubbed the Chief’s Poetry Forum. We took almost all of our poetry classes together and frequently met up at Chief’s Café to end the night. They sold a double Jim & Ginger for like a $1.95 and Cherry Bombs for 50 cents (maraschino cherries soaked in grain alcohol). The five of us would monopolize the back tables and stay until close. Sometimes we had impromptu poetry readings at 1:30 in the morning. They didn’t care. As long as we weren’t fighting. Fights broke out frequently, and everyone knew to just pick up your glasses as they wrestled on your table briefly before being thrown out. One night there was a girl with a whip on the bar. No one gave her a second look.
I lived a block away in a house that has since burned down following a grizzly series of events. If you drive past it now, you can still see the stairs leading up to it, but the house is just a collection of weeds.
There was a back porch that faced nothing but a hillside, and we put our Milwaukee’s Best in gaudy goblets, and imagined we were someplace fabulous. I even wrote a poem about it, but I changed the beer to Iron City because it sounded better, “Reflections on our Iron City”. It’s currently in a frame in the living room.
I’m not a successful poet, and The Chief’s Poetry Forum was not the Beat Generation of Generation X, but we had good times.
Sometimes that’s all you can ask, or expect out of life, for things to go well.
Times up.
