~ Delta Poetry Review ~

Jason Gordy Walker

Washing Dishes at Crybaby’s

Soapy water cascaded down my hands.

I scraped a pan with a spoon,

a strange instrument. Down the line,

“Walking in!” repeated like an earworm.

“Behind, behind,” I barked to the line cooks.

I hauled a bus-tub of metal trays,

ceramic plates, and silver dipping cups.

I dunked them in a green-glowing sink.

The machine’s jets rumbled. I lifted

the aluminum door, slid the blue dish rack down,

spraying off lingering suds, then arranged

the dishes to dry according to their likeness.

I didn’t own a thing here, not even myself.

I pushed more forks into the industrial machine’s

mouth. I waited for a long two minutes.

Then I repeated, repeated, repeated the process.

Elegy for Alec

Back then, I had never seen

someone ride a skateboard until I saw

you speeding down the gritty hill, your hair

flying through Louisiana air, your arms twisting,

your feet glued to grip-tape as if you were born

to shred. You tic-tacked loops around the church

parking lot until you saw me watching you

from the top of the gym stairs. I was bored

from playing “Horse” alone for hours.

“Hey, man, wanna try?” you asked.

A shy nerd, I nodded. You tried to teach

me how to stand, but I was too scared.

I rode down the hill on my butt,

stopping with my feet. You told me

I was good, but I never thought I’d be as good

as you. The harsh sun battered the pavement.

Clouds gathered for a stormy service.

For a year, every few weeks, you would skate

miles from your house in the sticks

to cruise the parking lot. You were patient.

I learned how to stand up, to hill-bomb, to jump

off the board in time. Your set-up was nothing fancy:

a waterlogged Wal-Mart deck with Frankenstein bearings,

jaundiced, flat-spotted wheels, and loose trucks.

The skull graphic was worn-out from your attempts

at boardslides on rough curbs. Your parents smoked

too much, and they fought too much, like mine did.

The old zealots complained about you, nicknamed

you “Smart-Alec,” and not because you were smart

(though you were), but because they could not control you.

Rumor was you lost your taste for skating, switched to meth.

I missed the funeral. But I keep thinking back on those days

when we were just boys, trying to learn something . . .

Jason Gordy Walker (he/him/his) has received scholarships from The New York State Summer Writers Institute and Poetry by the Sea: A Global Conference. His work appears (or is forthcoming) in Atlanta Review, Confrontation, Poetry South, Poetry Northwest, The Southern Poetry Anthology, Vol. X: Alabama, and others. He holds an MFA from The University of Florida.