CL Bledsoe- Three Poems

Bio: CL Bledsoe is the author of a dozen books, most recently the poetry collection Riceland and the novel Man of Clay. He lives in northern Virginia with his daughter.

Movie Hut

Tucked in a strip mall between a nasty taco

joint that made a mean biscuits and gravy,

and a hair salon full of bored 20-somethings

who spent the whole time trying

to upsell you. The carpet was some faded,

filthy shade that might’ve once been green

and brown or just years of stains. Tuesday’s

new releases up front, crowded and picked clean

by Friday afternoon. Maybe you paused

in the classics, but everyone’s seen those

or decided they never will long ago. Maybe

you try the drama or action but those are just new

releases that are no longer new. In the back,

on the wall: the true destination. A video shop

could be judged by its horror section. Obscure, silly

titles you never heard of, imported Italian insanity.

Every once in a while you find that low-budget

gem that makes the night worth wasting. They

had overpriced popcorn covered in dust. They

had sodas flatter than the earth. They had used

VHS for sale to make room for DVDs sometimes

cheaper to buy than to rent. When they were gone,

they weren’t going to be replaced.

Salad Days

Friday nights, before we had our licenses, we’d wait

till Dad was asleep, borrow his dirt- and oil-stained

truck, and cruise gravel roads to the old Tastee Freeze

on the edge of town. They had ice cream cones dipped

in fudge. They had tattered onion rings that tasted

like salt and grease, burgers that came hot and drippy.

We’d pay in change, borrowed money, any way

we could. All of it squished into a greasy bag, too hot

to eat until we got home. We’d cut the engine and roll

the last few yards, lights off, to the house; push the doors

to quietly, butterscotch milkshakes already empty,

tiptoe back into my bedroom to scarf our lukewarm

grease and play Super Mario Bros until we passed out.

The Yellow King

Everything smelled like grease, even

on your day off. I worked there for two

days. On the first, a coworker got into

an argument with a plant in the lobby

while I was on lunch. It looked like

the plant got the better of him. When

I went back behind the counter, the shift

manager with the piercings in her cheek said

he wasn’t violent. The others gathered around

her as she pontificated in mumbled slang

about high times in the trailer park.

I was going to New York the next day,

a trip I’d planned before getting the job.

I would eat my first veggie pizza—just bread

and plants, really—try calamari, drink six

dollar beer, be felt up by strangers in a city

where everyone wears black and hates

everything. Just because I would never be one

of them didn’t mean I would only ever

be me. When I got back, I worked one

more day with the familiar smell

and the boredom. I took my shirts back

when I picked up my check. No one cared.

It happened all the time.