Ode to Father's Gay Nineties

Father’s Gay Nineties, I miss you so.

The July days I sat within your walls

Filling the endless days of summer.

Shivering in my tank top as the air conditioning

and the ice cream dropped my body temperature by

at least 10 degrees.

Your red velvet walls and black leather booths, reminding me (in later life)

Of a brothel, as I ordered a turkey club sandwich

for the very first time

On white toast, I believe.

Discovering the joys of peanut butter milkshakes

And Dusty sundaes.

Evoking such happiness for my taste buds

That each taste bud should have smoked

A tiny cigarette afterwards.

The countless times we filled your slightly torn booths,

middle school kids, just getting out of a dance.

While some of us loosened the lids on salt shakers, or

filled glasses with water 'til almost overflowing,

Topped the glass with a plate and quickly overturned

To give the appearance of an empty upside down glass

Sometimes leaving our measly tip trapped

under the glass.

The waitresses

Hated us so.

One of these waitresses, my older sister.  She was not

Cut out for the food service industry. I liked to

watch her tiny form, bowed under a tray full of

multi-scoop desserts

stagger by and deposit the tray so inelegantly on

it's stand. If only her tips

weren't submerged under that upside down glass.

Memories of a rowboat filled, inexplicably, with ice cream.  While a sign

Proclaimed “$99.99!”, the price for this prize. I wondered if

The name of the boat was

Non Sequitor.

Indian Delight occupies the space once held by this giant

Of the ice cream industry. Very happy with Indian Delight,

but I think

If they would sell a dinghy full of

Chicken Tikki Masala

They would get a spike in business. 

Father's Gay Nineties, the name alone

rife with possibilities. But I will

leave it alone.

Father’s Gay Nineties, I miss you so.

Unlike this poem, you will not

Be forgotten.