Greg Rappleye
Waitress at The Shamrock Diner
-Maggie Burke,
March 12, 1928
The meatloaf is best. Try it
with peas and mashed potatoes.
Tonight, say No thanks to the stew.
On Friday, there’s baked cod,
fried pogies with coleslaw,
mac and cheese for the kids.
The coffee is always fresh,
the pie is right enough, in season.
If you’re Irish, you’re welcome.
Our younger priest comes groaning in,
red-faced, each Saturday
after Confessions. When I slide
the pie-safe open, he winces.
Must be some ferocious sins
told among the clam-wives!
Paul’s sweaty but a fine cook,
Melody’s mediocre at scrubbing
the stock pots. Davy’s at the age,
too leering to care. Those photos
above the counter—de Valera on the left,
Michael Collins to the right—
seem to glare at each other. No great
matter come St. Patrick’s Day, when
the corned beef will be slathered
with hot mustard, and the pale
cabbage boiled crisp. The green flag
stretched along the wall, the flag
of the Irish Regiment, is real.
And that card’s the Sacred Heart of Jesus,
greasy and tired, tacked above
the transom. I won’t be here
forever, you know—rearranging tables,
pushing flatware across an eight-top
when the Hallorans bother-by,
all linty from the mill. I’m getting out
of this ship-wrecked town, you’ll see.
My sweet one is already in Michigan,
bolting axles for Mr. Ford. Any day
now, he’ll send the fare for Detroit.
How’s your coffee, Johnny? Top you off?
Them apples was red and shiny
when I peeled ’em. They barreled-up okay,
for all the storminess we had. Be a good
boyo then; eat your pie.
Greg Rappleye has poems just out or forthcoming in Shenandoah, North American Review, Bellingham Review, and Southeast Review. His fourth collection, Tropical Landscape with Ten Hummingbirds, was published in October, 2018 by Dos Madres Press. He teaches in the English Department at Hope College in Holland, Michigan.