Supreme Dairy Bar — 1967

Nicky West holds court

in the Supreme Dairy Bar 

with the regular lunchtime crowd;

talking about the Chicago Cubs.

Some listen and humor him,

others quietly eat burgers and fries

sipping Cherry Cokes and Green Rivers.

I pay no attention to Nicky-

just waiting for my lunch.

He’s a little weird but friendly.

Most of the older kids at school though

make fun of twenty-something Nicky

calling him slow or retard but I

wanted no part of their idiot chorus.

For my lunch today-

a hot dog zapped in a microwave

followed by a vanilla shake-

poured thick and smooth

from a frosty metal cup

into a tall tulip-shaped glass

then sucked through straw.

“Don’t drink that shake too fast kid,”

says Nicky, “Cuz you’ll get

yourself an ice cream headache.”

I don’t listen because I am ten

and ten year olds know enough

about the world including how fast

or not how fast to drink a shake.

But Nicky’s right and laughs

when he sees my frozen grimace

as the cold shoots to my brain.

“See, I told ya kid,” Nicky smiles.

“Just rub your temples and you’ll be okay.”

He’s right; it works.

We end up leaving at the same time.

I watch Nicky climb on top his bike

and set off down the street.

I’m happy that I am not like the

other kids at school-

as I wave goodbye to Nicky