Poems by Don Winter

Don Winter was a night manager at Burger Chef in Niles, Michigan.  His store has since been torn down and replaced by a Rite-Way Drug.  The store may be gone, but Winter continues to draw inspiration for his poetry from those years behind the counter.  His writing received acceptances from nearly 400 journals, including New York Quarterly, Southern Poetry Review and 5 AM.  Today, Winter is an Assistant Editor of Alaska Quarterly Review and co-editor of Fight These Bastards.

Mr. Winter has kindly granted me permission to share some of his poetry here at The Reliquary. He says that while the third poem, Raw, may not be "clearly B.C. inspired," it in fact takes place in a Burger Chef parking lot.

Cleaning Up At The Hamtramck Burger Chef

Nights at this place boss lines spray bottles up across the counter. He says the red’s for shelves, the blue’s for toilets, and the white’s only for stainless steel. His eyebrows frown, but when that bastard disappears into his office I spray what I want onto what I want. Some nights his wife lifts her ass onto the counter. She points out turnover skins I missed. Looks like she’s been slept in for years. Those nights I time his trip to the bank to chase her with the white bottle. And I catch her and squeeze the little Chef faces stitched over her breasts. Some nights, that is. But most nights the boss looks right through me. His wife mechanically cleans the salad bar, and yells at the bits of mustard and dressing. As if they are to blame for all this. Most nights I turn up the radio and sing my own words. Something about being in this business to stay alive. Something like that.

The Grill Cook’s Dream

Since she came to Burger Chef

Vera is all he thinks about

She calls back

“Two double cheese, hold the onions”

and he slides down

that voice onto a sofa

where they sit frenching, blowing

in each other’s ears.

She makes change

and he makes it under

her sweater, her nipples lilac

in the space heater’s flames.

“You fucked up, or what?” boss yells

one night when he’s already boosted

the radio in his head

to “10,” Vera’s throat wild with words:

“yeah baby, oh baby, yeah,”

her butt wriggling,

her skinny legs jittering

like electric rubber bands.

“I’m fine,” he swears,

sweeping buns into a dustpan

and secretly believing

he and Vera have the whole night ahead

Raw

Playing hooky again,

we carry eggs over french fries

& broken glass frozen on the pavement.

We count three & fire:

one falls short,

three smack the fat chef’s face

on the roof.

                  Back in the truck

Mark turns doughnuts, I hang out

the window, hit a guy

wearing a football uniform,

splatter the handicap sign.

We feel tough

                      as older brothers

learning to say fuck you to authority.

The manager pounds out

after us, punching air

& screaming, but he snaps back

when my egg hits his chest.

Mark fishtails the street.

“One fuck of an arm,

fuck of an arm,”

he spits, turns up the unhinged

music. Pretty soon, someone will kick

our asses for doing shit like this.

I stick my head out

the window again, raw night

air rushing into

my eyes and mouth.

   Earlier this year, Winter published his first collection of poetry entitled Things About to Disappear.  It includes the poem Dressing Burgers at Wanda's Grill...yet another poem inspired by his nights working for The Chef.  To order your copy of Things About to Disappear send U.S.$4.00 to MuscleHead Press Chapbooks, Division of Bone World Publishing, 3700 Country Route 24, Russell, New York 13684.  Proceeds from Things About to Disappear will be used to support Winter's son, Dylan.