Closing Time at the Second Avenue Deli by Alan Dugan

Closing Time at the Second Avenue Deli

 

This is the time of night at the delicatessen 

when the manager is balancing 

a nearly empty ketchup bottle 

upside-down on a nearly full ketchup bottle 

and spreading his hands slowly away 

from the perfect balance like shall I say 

a priest blessing the balance, the achievement 

of perfect emptiness, of perfect fullness? No, 

this is a kosher delicatessen. The manager 

is not like. He is not like a priest, 

he is not even like a rabbi, he 

is not like anyone else except the manager 

as he turns to watch the waitress

discussing the lamb stew with my wife, 

how most people eat the whole thing, 

they don’t take it home in a container, 

as she mops up the tables, as the 

cashier shall I say balances out? 

No. The computer does all that. This 

is not the time for metaphors. This is the time 

to turn out the lights, and yes, 

imagine it, those two ketchup bottles 

will stand there all night long 

as acrobatic metaphors of balance, 

of emptiness, of fullness perfectly contained, 

of any metaphor you wish unless 

the manager snaps his fingers at the door, 

goes back, and separates them for the night 

from that unnatural balance, and the store goes dark 

as my wife says should we take a cab 

or walk, the stew is starting to drip already. 

Shall I say that the container can not 

contain the thing contained anymore? No. 

Just that the lamb stew is leaking all across town 

in one place: it is leaking on the floor of the taxi-cab, 

and that somebody is going to pay for this ride.