Gene McCormick- Poem & Art

Escape Route

To the side of the restaurant foyer, left

and down a plush carpeted dim-lit corridor

lined with reproduction German Expressionist paintings,

past an alcove housing gentlemen’s and ladies rooms,

beyond banquet room number one, turning right

into banquet room number two and then, to the far side,

there is a locked storage room, empty,

that has an exit to the rear parking lot.

It is a small room, about 10’ x 12’,

walls and floor painted industrial grey,

with no windows or shelving, no paintings on the walls,

no telephone, not even a fire extinguisher.

The maître ‘d shuts the entry door, opens the exit door

to the parking lot a crack and pulls a soft pack of Camels

from his side tux pocket. It is unopened,

and he firmly tamps the pack against the palm of his hand,

pulling the gold tab around the pack but leaving

the cellophane covering on for protection.

He has limited time but takes care to lift the foil

with his fingernail, tearing just enough of the

top edge for a couple cigarettes to show.

He never refers to them by any derivative name

nor by their brand name. They are cigarettes.

The front portion of foil is removed, crumpled,

but the silver that wraps around the cigarettes in the pack

is retained for freshness and armor against the hazards

in his jacket pocket. A soft pack is susceptible

to damages but has a feel, touch and history

that a hard pack lacks. The cellophane feels refreshing

to his uncallused palm as he runs his fingers around

the Camels, tapping out a cigarette, hoping they

never change the design of the camel in profile,

pyramids and palm trees in the background.

A flaring wooden match from a vintage

Diamond match box lights the tip, smoke

immediately drifting toward the exterior door.

The spent cigarette arcs into the rain-soaked parking lot

like a lone firework, a moment’s pleasure. Back to work. 

Brief Bio: Gene McCormick has smooth but macho hands,

does not smoke but occasionally smolders.