Down at Mickey's

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 Down at Mickey’s

“A poet could write volumes about American diners,

because they are so beautiful.” --David Lynch.

On Saturday nights,

in our small town

we all used to hang out

at Mickey’s Diner,

a remodeled

Northern Pacific dining car.

Before specific hamburger restaurants

were invented in the late 50’s, diners

and drug stores were the only places

one could get a hamburger.

There was just something

so Art Deco about those

converted railroad car diners

that showed up after WWII.

Mickey’s had been built

in 1946. 

My Dad use to take me there,

just me and him,

as a treat after

one of my little league

baseball games.

I was a pretty good

first baseman.

Parked all around Mickey’s

were thrilling shiny cars.

Parked amongst the pre-war sedans

were ’57 Impalas,

         ’54 Bel Airs,

         ’56 Roadmasters,

         ’53 Packards

         ’58 Oldsmobile Rockets, and

         ’55 Lincolns.

These cars were trimmed

with tons of bright chrome,

steel bumpers and massive grills,

each with its unique hood ornament,

matching the brilliance

of the stainless steel trim

on the dining car.

Ike was President,

and the pounds of chrome

on every door, and 

the behemoth V-8 engines,

and the twin glass packs,

announced to the world

that 10 miles to the gallon of gas

was OK, and America was

the most prosperous country ever.

Inside the diner, a row

of chrome-necked red stools

were bolted to the floor 

in front of a stainless steel bar.

The grills and fryers were

in plain sight. 

The booths, all plush

with their red Naugahyde covers,

lined the window side of the car.

I preferred sitting in a booth.

I always ordered

a cheeseburger, curly fries,

and a chocolate shake.

They used real ice cream, 

and they left the chrome canister

with the left overs in it.         

The .19 cent burger places

that replaced the diners

never had the magic and allure

that the diner cars had.

Glenn Buttkus

Posted over at d'Verse Poet's Pub MTB