Fred's Creamery on Charlotte Street

The flames failed that night
to fully destroy
the lunch counter/convenience store
where my mother worked -- the man
it was named after gave it to his son,
that was the way of things then,
and the son sold it years later
because nothing can remain the same
forever.

The new owners renamed
that lunch counter/convenience store,
probably believing in some business plan god,
even though I can't remember
what they called it,
and the devil readied his alibi
as those flames burned that night.

The fire hasn't reached my memory
yet, so I can still see the faded walls,
smell the grease, taste the onion rings,
hear the traffic drive by while waiting for my mother
on pay days, and feel the sweat
running down my back on those days
in summer,
while on a page this poem sits, content
as firewood before winter.