Suppers at The Sampler Inn, Ocean Grove, by Susanna Rich

The cafeteria queue is a long necklace of heads
wending down its creaky porch,
down the slate block, around the corner—
hundreds of us de-sanded in outdoor showers,
wet hair slicked or rubber banded,
straps misaligned over bathing suit marks,
and Hawaiian maomaos, madras plaid jackets,
canes, tight blue-tinted perms.

Grandmother Mumchy, Mother, and I study the menu
on the outside wall—plastic letters pressed 
into the black corrugated board.
Will there be Boston Baked Beans …$1.35
nd Potato Salad…$.65?

The door opens to wafts of fish and onions,
voices ricocheting off the tin Victorian ceiling.
I get my own brown tray and bent silverware
wrapped in a paper napkin. 

Behind the steam tables,
servers with white aprons
and neon-lit faces scoop mashed potatoes,
ladle in gravy lakes, brandish knives
to slice watermelon grins.

At our long table with strangers,
Mumchy waits for Mother and me
to push our leftovers onto her plate
for her meal.  Shouldn’t waste. Keep
up your weight. You never know. 

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