green grub Joint Poetry

Bill Synder GREEN GRUB JOINT

After, The Cafe Terrace on the Place du Forum Vincent Van Gogh, September 1888

We take a meal at the Terrace, a table in a crook of green—green bordered door, green shaded windows, glassy table tops reflecting green. But I cross the street for a handkerchief—a cold coming on— eating outside will make me run. And back with a blue one, curly red dots.

He sits at a table, fists on his cheeks. No, he says, he is not moping, and no, not crying. Just holding still. His head, he says, ducks and swivels and twists with a world to paint—shingles, fingernails, stars, mist above a stack of wheat.

And he listens, he says, to people around, and holds himself, holds still, broods— says he wants to paint sounds someday— sneezes at night, oars in gunwales rowing, hooves on cobblestone—and smell—radish, pine cone, piss in a bucket.

He’s ordered lapin au tomates. I know you like it, he says. But, I say, I was thinking omelette— fromage, champignon—cheap and quick, and a plain baguette, butter, house white with the egg. No, he says, I want food fit for kings. A painty one—me, a writey one—you. And you, he says, can pay, bien sûr. Merde, I say,

Jésus. But what about your moneybags in Paris? I squeeze him enough, he says. If squeezed too much, he’d shrivel and droop. Especially his wallet. But we’ll make do. I’ll paint this place, give them the canvas, name it. “The Most Excellent Green Grub Joint in All of Arles.” That should get us rabbit, some springy legs.