Scott Waters lives in Oakland, California with his wife and son. He graduated with a Master’s Degree in Creative Writing from San Francisco State University. Scott has published previously in The Blue Nib, The Pacific Review, Loch Raven Review, Adelaide, Better Than Starbucks, A New Ulster, Selcouth Station, The Courtship of Winds, Scarlet Leaf Review, The Pangolin Review, Ink in Thirds, and many other journals. Scott’s first chapbook will be published by Selcouth Station, and his poem “I Could Be Anybody” has been nominated for the Pushcart Prize.
I could seek another click. like. thumb. heart-hugging smiley. but the hole would remain unfilled black as nothing hungry for everything.
WHERE IS MY PORK LOIN SANDWICH?
Octopus Literary Salon Oaktown some years ago I drag my friend Terry along to hear a little poetry not Terry’s scene but he’s a good sport we find a small table wedged between hipsters sipping cappuccinos “Let’s get some food” Terry says we go up to the counter Terry orders a mushroom burger and I get the pork loin sandwich “We’ll bring it to you” says the bearded young man behind the counter he scribbles on a pad rips off a sheet and hands it to a young woman in a red T shirt passing behind him “Enjoy your evening.” A few minutes later Terry gets his mushroom burger we listen to a few poets and a songwriter or two Terry says, “You should go ask about your pork loin sandwich.” The young woman in the red T shirt hurries by with a salad plate “Excuse me, I haven’t gotten the pork loin sandwich I ordered.” She gives me a blank look “Sorry about that, let me check on your order.” She darts away and nearly knocks a coffee cup out of a hipster’s hand. 30 minutes later my stomach is coiled like a snake ready to strike Terry says, “Maybe you should write a poem called Where is My Pork Loin Sandwich?” I shove back my chair and step on a hipster’s foot on my way to the counter the young woman looks up “Oh my God, I am so sorry. The person who took your order quit on me a few minutes ago. The dude just started shouting and walked out.” I picture the dude sitting beside a dumpster in a nearby alley eating my pork loin sandwich. I don’t remember if I ever got my food but I remember a man reading a series of haiku the faces glowing in the lamp light petals on a wet, black bough
Joe Morgan died recently I tried to explain to my wife I got a bit farther with my son but to really nail the feeling I called my Dad to reminisce about Morgan's days as second baseman with The Big Red Machine Dad's hearing aid wasn't up to the conversation and I was left with no one to tell about line drives chasing pitchers like geese off a burial mound a left arm flapping at the plate like the wing of a ticklish chicken cleats digging up green clouds of AstroTurf between first and second base and a glove that ate ground balls for dinner. Crickets chatter in the Indiana dusk my Dad and I sit on lawn chairs sipping lemonade listening as Little Joe steps to the plate