Route Sixty-something by Craig Kirchner

Route Sixty-something

It was disgustingly hot, no clouds, no breeze,

felt as though if you reached just a bit

you could touch the sun. There is a diner

and not much else, 50’s motif,

with decades of grease giving it a noir atmosphere.

There is a reluctance to sit, to eat,

but it’s air-conditioned.

Long red curly hair, falling to the side, gold cross,

hanging meaningfully, comfortably in significant cleavage,

pours me a coffee, “What’s your name?

Mine is Emerite, everybody calls me Red,

…it means, completed one’s service”

Now here’s the menu, the special, but what’s your name.

The juke slot sucks the quarter out of my grip.

My lucky number 114, Marvin Gaye -

‘I Heard it Through the Grapevine’.

Before Marvin sings there is electric piano that sets

a whole new mysterious mood to the room

and then the lyrics, the personal tale of infidelity, lost love.

These booths have been feeding home fries

and adultery since Emerite was in diapers.

“You know Emerita was a Saint, have you had

many saints come through here?”

This gives her pause, but only for a sec.

“Mostly rednecks, you’re the first clean shave

and ironed shirt I’ve seen in months.”

She takes my order, refills the coffee, now the center

of the universe, of route sixty-something, my pilgrimage.

A boundary on the edge of my world, a story I need

to know the end of. Marvin Gaye and I telling Emerite

what she already understood – that she was meant to pour

this coffee, as I was meant to devour these eggs,

avoid the sickening heat, that I’m just about to lose my mind,

that being on the road is about these realizations

and the saints that no one else ever sees.