The regulars at the pub all knew him
that cook, he was some talker
couldn't confine himself
to his cutting boards and pots
the dimensions of his kitchen

after the lunch rush
he'd carouse the bar
or step in for the servers
help 'pull the pints'
serve samples of new specials
land for a joke and a smoke
at a customer's table
all the while opinionating
spewing stories or inquiring

he circulated
so the regulars all knew him
his incessant banter
how he seemed to go on so
to joke, cajole, debate, talk, re-iterate
repeat the city and the world news
philosophize
they just wanted to drink their booze
unwind
all did not choose
to serve as audience
this pub was their souls' refuge
still, they accepted
even as they objected
it was just his way

then one night a lady entered
quiet and shy at first
but gradually revealing
her own style, voice and
heart, heavy, in those days
stung by some fresh loss
and with little time
through the din and smoke
of the blue-and-white collar crowd
a sound emerged above the rest
but first it was his voice
next, his flamboyant laugh
that glittered up her days
and somehow warmed her soul
soon grew familiar and inviting
her ears consumed it; then her eyes
came to recognize and adore the source
all her female senses followed

now those moments when his calling
to vocalize was strong
and others turned away
the lady could not suppress
her Mona Lisa smile
and her ears tuned
out all superfluous sound
but his

in her the conviction grew
that the others failed to see
how lucky they were to know
this outgoing, outspoken cook

then one day he identified
the sparkle in her eyes for him
and that this lady really heard
seemed to care, react, absorb
digest, want more
and, if not blindly accept
would offer feedback
to his mind's outpour

not many years later
his final 'last call'
sounded at the pub
and the lady's husband
the cook left her
for the hereafter
but sometimes, to this day
past his old place of work
on a fine afternoon, after the lunch rush
his widow's been seen to stroll
and from among the street noises
she's professed

a sound emerges above the rest
...his gregarious laughter

she'd almost swear to it
and the tenor of his voice
calling out her name

she'll look around, and just see strangers
and know once more her silence

12/14/2001

Posted on 06/14/2004
Copyright © 2024 Maureen Glaude