Chandler's Buffet

©Jeff Franks — May 1998

The beasts move to Chandler’s,
swimming behind the blood rare canopy,
validating the red brick wall,
dragging their huge fins like conning towers on attack submarines.

In the hot kitchen,
Alaskan King Crabs
steam like geysers when cracked,
haddock sizzle in frying pans
used to beat them flat,
slippery gray squid
gaze out with black fluid eyes,
while worn out salmon lay on ice,
quarantined like salty lepers.

Outside,
impatient killers race to be first,
like teammates caught up in competition,
ignoring the traffic signs,
cutting in line,
splashing an old gentleman who stares in disbelief,
while they rush headlong into the wall.
white paint chips flutter down,
not like snow at all,
to expose the crumbling infrastructure
behind the façade of the handsome brick arches.

Gliding on aging wings,
a once proud symbol wanders in the fog,
disguised, disinterested, and disconcerted,
possibly predator, probably defender, perhaps carrion.