Jackie Gleason's Birthday

Yesterday was the anniversary of Jackie Gleason's birth in 1916. In honor of him, here is a poem of mine that appeared in my first chapbook, Dreaming at the Electric Hobo (Finishing Line Press, 2017). It's mostly factual, except the restaurant was named Reaban's, and I don't remember the first name of the owner, who showed the typo. The place is still there in my hometown at Seventh and Orchard, differently named.


Saturday Night at Betsy’s

just hangin’ around, not doin’ nuttin, 
twelve stools at the counter,

and Betsy did a small town business
serving folks with tight, butt-punishing

hospitality along the highway curve,  
serving up heart food in a different sense:

cheeseburgers, fries, and shakes,
a big night out for Mom and Dad and me

in the 1960s, Dad’s love for low-cost goodness
and tinny speaker songs of drivin’ and ramblin.’

On a still-light June evening, Betsy
opened the local paper and showed folks a typo:

The groom wore a pinstriped shit. Everyone
laughed, Mom and Dad, and me too,

not wanting to feel little, for I hadn’t learned
that word. Later, I asked Mom, who felt

chagrined to be the one who taught me a bad word.
But that was okay, I had dreams

of growing up, learning, working, gaining
a manly stomach like my dad and Jackie Gleason.

My folks and I were happy at the counter
as we watched the patties flip, the cheese

slapped upon the burgers
rounded out with oh so good dessert,

before we hurried home
for the Poor Soul, Reginald,

the June Taylor Dancers,
Crazy Guggenheim

breaking into song for Jackie Gleason,
big as I am now.