Expecting Rain

Go to main page
It is currently Tue May 21st, 2019, 01:06 GMT

All times are UTC

Post new topic Reply to topic  [ 7 posts ] 
Author Message
PostPosted: Thu June 13th, 2013, 02:49 GMT 

Joined: Fri August 26th, 2011, 12:52 GMT
Posts: 132

(here's a crazy, embarrassing, unnecessary, puzzling poem kinda thing..I figured I would share it here....it's a modified version of an old familiar tale, but told from a different perspective......
-I think you all can tell which song this was inspired by...
*warning: poetic license was employed throughout; there are differences between this account of the story and the original tale, and there obviously are many details that have been added on....kind of like when two people tell their own differing accounts of a shared experience that occurred in their past.....)

"The Beantown Waitress & the Roving Blue-eyed Songster"

I work as a waitress in a Beantown restaurant.
I know how to flirt and I know how to flaunt,
but I only flirt with those who curl my toes,
and only with customers who appear to have a lot of dough.
I don’t play with just anybody,
but only with those handsome customers who look good to me.
Beauty’s in the eye of this beholder.
Whenever I want to, I can give a guest the cold shoulder.
I kiss some, I resist some
I bliss some, and I diss some
and you sure can bet
I know how to play hard-to-get.
I can make a man stare
simply by tossing my long shiny hair.
I can look at a fine fella and know just what he wants
cause I’m just a sexy young waitress in this Beantown restaurant.

Let me tell you about an old man who came in one day.
At my first glimpse of him I wanted him to go away.
It was on a funny Friday afternoon
and that’s my least favorite day of the week
because that bastard of a day ushers in my lonely weekends.
Before he came along I had no one to serve, I had myself some spare time.
I looked down at the floor and I spied a 10 cent dime
so I picked it up and fed it to our jukebox.
I tried to find a record by Charlie Rich,
but when I couldn’t find it I stammered, “now, ain’t that a b*tch!”
so I settled for something a little more recent.
The record wasn’t eargasmic but at least it was decent,
and I was listening to that jukebox, just taking in the sound
when I heard someone come in so I turned around.
The jukebox it fell silent, on the instant that he stepped in
as if the man’s presence caused the silence to begin.
The time was about 5:05 when he arrived
I saw an annoying twinkle in his two excited eyes.
He really pissed me off, that he just had to come in alone
I complained of all of this under my breath, as I moaned,
“UGH!! The place had been so peacefully empty before HE waltzed in!
and I was just about to go out for a smoke break!
but NOOO! he had to walk in! what a head ache!”.
I’d have to fake some kind of kindness for him or else I’d be fired.
He seemed so simultaneously sprightly and tired.
From the style of his his swagger I surely could tell
that he was about to put me through hell.
I prepared myself for some irksome scenario
from this lurking, lonesome lothario.
Yes, I knew I’d be dealin’ with an old skirt chaser,
a playboy, a tomcat, a real heartbreaker....

I had to hold my nose, the moment he stepped in
for he was reeking of whiskey, weed, and gin.
His smell and his hat told me that he was an artist of some sort:
like a painter or a writer of songs long and short.
Yes, some kind of art must’ve made up his trade.
I expected him to tease me with some stupid charade
because the joint was deserted except for him and I,
and he seemed kinda cheeky and only a little shy.
He moved across the room, slowly, like a sulking cat,
then he took his place at a table and he removed his hat,
which revealed to me the messiest mess of hair I’ve ever seen in my life.
I thought to myself, “there’s no way in hell that this man has a wife!”.
Reluctantly, I inched over to him to take his order and to talk.
My footsteps felt more like a military march than a normal walk.
Bravely I stood before him at the table where he sat in his chair.
Out of a cold, frosted window he did stare,
with his two songwriter’s eyes of aged blue.
The way that he stared confirmed his career as a dreamer, and a painter too
as well as a writer and a singer of the blues.
I asked if there was anything for him that I could do.

His hair was still a mess as he stared at my dress.
I prayed he would look at me a little less
but then his two blue eyes gazed at my silky white legs.
His face reminded me of a puppy dog that begs.
His voice was soft, slow, and raspy with a tone that was sly
as he said, “I’d sure love me a sweet slice of your Boston Cream Pie.”
In that instant he gave me a wink
which made it difficult for me to think.
I answered, “we don’t serve that here because we’re all out of cream.“
He furrowed his eyebrows and he exclaimed, “Hey now! That’s a lie! Or some kind of sinister scheme!
How can ya not serve Boston Cream pies here?
Tell me why not, dear!!!!”.
I said to him, “Alright now, just settle down, settle down!
and I’ll tell you why there are no pies around.
You see, our town’s mayor enacted an ordinance,
one that hungry folks often protest against,
which said that you can’t sell pies on a Friday.
If you want one today you’ve gotta hit the highway
and get yourself to another town
where you can scarf pies down
to your little heart’s content!”
and that’s how my explanation went.
But it sure didn’t work, he laughed uncontrollably!
and he went on staring at me
while I fixed my hands on my hips, scowled, and slanted my thin eyebrows.
I’d have to figure out a way to deal with him somehow.

He laughed hysterically for all of five agitating minutes,
then he continued to converse about what was off limits.
He asked, “Why do you Bostonians even call em’ pies anyhow?"
(He paused to watch a truck with a snowplow
as it trudged along the icy city street
and to that rhythm he tapped his leather-booted feet.)
He continued, “A Boston Cream Pie sure ain’t no pie, it’s a cake!
To call it a pie sure is some strange mistake!”
To this I returned, “Well I guess it’s because of men like you
who just love to meditate on that word for an hour or two”.
I said, “In fact, that’s why our mayor made this rule,
to control the guys in this town who drool
at the sight and the mention of pie.”
Then, in flirty frustration, he sighed
and he said, “oh me, oh my, so I really can’t get myself no pie here?
I can’t taste those flavors that are oh-so fine,
like Raspberry, strawberry, lemon and lime,
Blueberry, apple, cherry, pumpkin and plum?
you mean to say that I really can’t get me some?".
So I replied to him, “Well, that stuff’s terrible for your teeth, like they say,
and a man of your age shouldn’t be munchin’ on that much sugar anyway!".
Then he childishly crossed his arms and he pouted his lips.
I noticed something about his finger tips,
which seemed like they were itching to draw or to write
as he studied the urban winter scape that was so snowy white.
He was driving me crazy: I must’ve been mad, because I then told him to draw me.
He ignored me and he asked for my private digits and said he wanted to call me.
I denied his request and said, “no, but here’s a pencil, here ya go,
draw me if you please”.
He still studied my knees,
so I madly shouted, “my FACE, sir!”.
Disappointed, he said “wow, that was cold, honey! BRRRR!!!”
He crossed his arms again and pretended to shiver
like he were standing outside his wintry window, beside that frozen Charles River.
He made his cold, quivering motions
and to myself I wondered, “where in the world is he getting all these notions?!?”.
He sure was making a big attempt to play cute,
sitting there in his ironed-out songwriter’s suit.
His face was planted in his hands and his elbows were propped up on his tabletop.
His distant eyes made him look like a man who lives in a bookshop on a mountaintop.
At me he then took a long look
but then he sighed and said “I can’t do it cause I didn’t bring my trusty sketchbook”.
I handed him a napkin and said, “here, make like Picasso and draw me on this!”.
Now, I figured his drawing would be hit or miss.
Once again he placed his hands on his knees.
I tried to pose naturally but I felt so ill at ease.
He looked the other way and then once more he sighed
right before he looked square into my face and my eyes.
He put down his pencil, raised his bushy old eyebrows and said,
“awww, honey, you look half dead!
and I sure as hell can’t draw a dead gal
so why don’t you just smile for me?
then I can draw ya -vivaciously!”.

Now, I hadn’t smiled for at least five years
ever since my ex left me and I’d shed 5,000 tears.
I told him that I didn’t have the ability to smile.
He put his head in his hands and he pondered that for a while.
He was trying to figure out what he could do.
To get me to smile, he lit up and told me a corny joke or two.
At the first one I didn’t crack a smile at all,
by the second one my resistance was starting to fall,
by his third joke I had to suppress a giggle,
by his fourth joke I laughed and he started to scribble
a little bit of me on that napkin I had given him.
He grinned as he could see that he was starting to win
and I was starting to lose.
His were the corniest jokes I’ve ever heard in my life, but I couldn’t refuse
laughing at them like I did.
Normally I keep my enjoyment hid from men like him.
I glanced at his portrait to see how it was coming along.
As he sketched my face he hummed a soft little song.
His picture was really turning out quite well!
When I looked at it, my heart swelled.
But I made up my mind that I wouldn’t tell him how much I liked his work
because he seemed like such a perverse jerk.
No sir! I’d lie and tell him his artwork was bad
and that his attempt at drawing me was very sad.
I’d dishonestly tell him that it didn’t look a thing like me
and I knew he was going to rightfully disagree.
If I had complimented his skill, that only would have stoked the fires
of his very obnoxious and disgusting desires.
I kept my opinion to myself, but I’d give it to him when my picture was complete.
A few more minutes passed and then he jumped out of his seat,
and to my shocked face he brightly exclaimed, “all done, there you are!”
That’s when I falsely told him, “your drawing is really quite bizarre,
because that doesn’t look a thing like me at all!”.
But still he insisted that it did.
Then I lied, “It looks like something something that was drawn by a kid!”.
Unmoved, he tenderly handed it to me but I crumpled it up and threw it back at him.
The cold light outside was beginning to dim.
He clutched his heart with his hand and said, “Now dear, don’t do that! that’s no way to treat yourself!”
He leaned over to pick up the crinkled napkin by himself.
He grasped it in his hands ever so delicately
and he uncrumpled his napkin sketch of me
and gently flattened it out upon the tabletop and he said,
“well at least you didn’t shred your likeness to bits, thank goodness!
because whatever happens to a picture of you, happens to your soul too!
you’ve gotta be more careful what you do, gal!”
and then he said, “this drawn out resemblance of you will be my only remembrance of you!”.
He gingerly placed the portrait in his chest pocket and he grinned as he proclaimed, ““there, now I’ll always keep you close to my heart!”
I could only roll my eyes
at this sweetly silly, salacious old guy
and his singer’s eyes and his storyteller’s heart.
He quickly mumbled, “Ya know what? you’re absolutely right, what you said was true: my drawing really doesn’t look a thing like you,
how can it look like you if it doesn’t capture your real essence?
Your true essence is concealed by all them cosmetics and that waitress costume of yours,
I could only capture your precise likeness if you took it all off for me,
do you think I could ever paint you in the nude sometime, honey baby?”.
I slapped him and screamed, “HELL NO!
He silently sat, stock-still, feeling the chill of the words I had screamed at him.
He rubbed the side of his face where I had slapped him,
and he nervously ran his hands through his hair at least a dozen times.
I almost imagined that I saw a tear trickle down from his cerulean eye
and I nearly found myself feeling sorry for the guy.
Whether it really was a tear or not, I’ll never be sure
it may have just been the sparkling of a bit of frost that I saw.
Either way, I threw my head back and stared at the ceiling for five long minutes
with my fingers clenched in two tight fists, he was really testing my limits.
I don’t know why I didn’t desert him then, I should have left him behind
but he must’ve cast some evil spell over my mind.
Something that made me stay.
He must’ve swayed my own free will and better judgement, with some trick or another.
Unfortunately for me, he had the magnetic charm of a well-practiced lover.
He took his time to muster up his courage to carry on conversing
His strange teasing and his blue eyes I kept on cursing.
Finally, the awkward silence was killed by his next words,
“OK...Hey darlin’, why don’t you try to draw me next, since I drew you?”.
Feeling so uptight, I responded, “That’s something I can’t do. I can’t draw to save my life!”.
He said, “you know what, I heard a gambler say that once!”
I didn’t know what to make of his words,
he spoke some of the strangest sentences I have ever heard.
Then excitedly he said, “Here’s your pencil back, go on now, draw me!
I drew you, so it’s only fair that you should have to draw me too!”.
I gave in, and ripped a page out of my waitress’s order pad
and he mumbled, “Hey! I forgot you had that!".
Then he meditatively fingered the brim of his hat
and he said, “I wonder why you had me draw on that napkin, when I could’ve drawn you on a page from your....”
I interrupted him with a stern look and said, “shut up and sit still,
or else I’ll leave you here alone with your windowsill!”.
It felt like an embarrassing disgrace
but I stared into his distinctive face,
and the lines beneath his eyes read like lines of a song
I began to draw him but my sketch was going all wrong.
My shaky fingers barely gripped the pencil,
which felt more like a fork or a spoon or some other utensil
that I held in my hands as I to sketched a line or two.
I was hypnotized by his eyes of blue.
I wanted to capture that hue in my drawing
but a black graphite pencil was all that I had as the snow was falling.
I finished my sketch in my nervous, hurried style.
I showed it to him and it made him smile.
I don’t know if it was just another tease,
but he seemed rather pleased
when he said, “Hey now, that’s very nice! may I keep it?”.
I said, “I guess so, if you must”.
I was feeling nauseous from all of his lust.
He took my drawing of him and placed it in his chest pocket, the same one that held his sketch of me
and he said, “now we’ll always be together as one, dear!”.
I didn't say anything, hoping that my silence could somehow make me disappear.

“John Greenleaf Whittier”, he then slowly spoke, with his head in his hands,
as he still stared through the frozen pane
and he listened to the chilly whistle of a far-off train.
He grumbled, “He was a poet, lived here in the Bay State. You ever go to his home in Haverhill?”
I shook my head and said “I never did, and I never will,
because some old poetry
never meant that much to me”.
At this he scowled and his eyes turned wide and sad.
He growled, “Well, I’ll see if I can change that!”.
Then he put on his dark hat
and he proceeded to recite for me
two poems by John Greenleaf Whittier, completely from memory.
He recited one called “A Lay of Old Time” and another called “A Sea Dream”
In the second one he spoke of a world-worn man,
and that seemed quite appropriate for him.
That title seemed to fit him to a T.
Then he reached his hand into his pocket and pulled out a tiny book.
He opened it up to the middle, and he took a long thoughtful look.
My ambivalent brain was clouded up with love and hate
as he read to me more poems, “A Dream of Summer” “An Artist of the Beautiful” and “My Playmate”
as well as a poem titled “Snow-Bound: A Winter Idyl”, which was very long.
The thousands of syllables that rolled off his tongue stung me like a love song.

He was really trying hard to impress me as the empty restaurant room was turning blue.
“Pretty cool, huh?”, he asked, after his poetry reading was all through.
I shrugged my shoulders and flatly said, “I guess so”.
(Well, I was actually very amazed but I didn’t let it show).
I didn’t want to let him know that he was winning.
I felt dizzy, it seemed like the room was spinning.
When his poetry ended we both sat still and silent.
And we continued on that way, in peace and quiet.
He stared at the ground with a mild frown on his face
He seemed to possess some kind of lady-killing grace.
After 5 more minutes of carrying on that way,
he lifted his head up and I readied myself for the next thing he was gonna say.
“Eggs”, he whispered, so low that I could barely hear him.
“What?” I asked him.
“Eggs, I would like to try some of your hard boiled eggs”, be spoke in a hushed, pleading tone.
I thought he would never leave me alone.
I told him “but we’re all out of eggs!”.
Even after all this time, he still stared at my legs!
Harshly I said, “You’ll have to order something else,
something we have, or you’ll just have go home to cook what you want, all by yourself”.

His gaze then started to follow the buttons sown onto my thin white blouse
and he asked me for a cup of milk.
He said, “how about-a-cuppa milk for me, that’ll do it! can I please get one cuppa milk?
maybe with some chocolate chip cookies, that’d be finer than silk!”.
But I replied, “no sir, I’ll make one thing clear:
we don’t ever serve milk here!”.
He hit his hands on the tabletop
It seemed like this craziness was never going to stop.
He then folded his arms on the table and laid his head down in despair and defeat.
He continued speaking in a tone that was sickly sweet,
as he babyishly cried, “AWWLL! why can’t I get a cup of milk here!?!”
I replied, “Because our manager is lactose intolerant, dear!”.
I couldn’t tell whether or not he was buying my excuses,
but he picked his head up from the table and stared outside again
with a frozen glare at the street and all of it’s cars out there sliding somewhere slow.
I asked him, “Pies? milk? eggs!?! why do you want all that cold stuff anyway? don’t you know,
You’ll catch hypothermia, eating stuff like that on this frigid day!”.

To which he returned, “OK, alright then, I think I’d love something hot
anything steaming that you’ve got, that would really hit the spot!
maybe a piping bowl of your hot homemade stew
or a scalding hot cup of coffee or two.
You can just bring me a cup of coffee boiling at 200 degrees
and I’ll gulp it down, as fast as I can, and that scorching burn
that I’ll feel in my throat will remind me of summer’s return!
You can bring that on over to me baby, can’t ya, please?”.
My response to him was one big dishonest tease,
I said, “Nope, coffee’s all drained and gone and we don’t serve any soup nor stew
I’m sorry, but there’s really nothing I can do”.
“DAMNIT!”, he murmured, “do you serve ANYTHING here at all?”.
Silently stone-faced, I handed him a copy of our menu
The expression on his face said, “I want to make love to you”.
He turned the menu over a few times and looked it through.
Out of indecisive boredom his finger made a repetitive circular motion on the tabletop.
Right about then I considered calling the cops.
I couldn’t stand this naughty old mischievous man anymore.
I just wanted to kick his immoral ass out the door.
More awkward silence fell between us.
I didn’t think there was anything more to discuss.
Our four eyes followed a city bus that rolled down the street.
Then he said, “Tell ya what, ya know what? I think what I really need,
what I really want, is simply some more time to figure out what I really want!”
so I responded to him, “OK, oh fine, oh yes, you go ahead and do just that
and I’ll be back in about 5 minutes or so to take your order”.
Then I left him alone and made my lonesome way to contemplate in the kitchen.
While I was in there, I resolved that I would go back out there and kiss him.
But when I went back out there to finally find out what he wanted to order,
I found he was gone.

(....he’d left only his hat, the rest of him had vanished from the place
I still thought about the expressive look of his soulful, weary face.
I sat down in the chair where he had sat
and I picked up his hat.
I placed it on my head, and I wore it for a while
and then I tried to smile,
but I found that I couldn’t.
So I just sat there and continued to stare out that dark window, all through the rest of that evening.
With my regretful stare fixed through that brutal, freezing glass,
I mulled over the incredible opportunity that I had just allowed to pass.)

PostPosted: Thu June 13th, 2013, 04:09 GMT 
Titanium Member
User avatar

Joined: Wed May 11th, 2011, 05:31 GMT
Posts: 5032
dude, you're awesome.

PostPosted: Thu June 13th, 2013, 05:17 GMT 
User avatar

Joined: Sun September 16th, 2012, 12:31 GMT
Posts: 104
Location: cincinnati ohio
i will need to get back to this! thanks!

PostPosted: Thu June 13th, 2013, 16:21 GMT 
Mercury Member
User avatar

Joined: Wed September 14th, 2011, 13:25 GMT
Posts: 12330
Location: Wherever I am welcome
I love this so much!

PostPosted: Thu June 13th, 2013, 16:27 GMT 
Senior Moderator
User avatar

Joined: Thu October 26th, 2006, 02:28 GMT
Posts: 24048
Location: I'm in Bostontown in some restaurant.
I'm in Bostontown in some restaurant..... 8)

PostPosted: Thu June 13th, 2013, 21:58 GMT 
User avatar

Joined: Wed June 22nd, 2011, 10:06 GMT
Posts: 3722
TTRHWilburysFan91 , i hope you stick around . You're awesome ! :)

PostPosted: Fri June 14th, 2013, 15:20 GMT 
Titanium Member
User avatar

Joined: Fri December 9th, 2011, 00:25 GMT
Posts: 6724
WilburysFan, I really enjoyed that!

Display posts from previous:  Sort by  
Post new topic Reply to topic  [ 7 posts ] 

All times are UTC

Who is online

Users browsing this forum: No registered users

You cannot post new topics in this forum
You cannot reply to topics in this forum
You cannot edit your posts in this forum
You cannot delete your posts in this forum
You cannot post attachments in this forum

Jump to:  
Powered by phpBB® Forum Software © phpBB Group