I’ve seen Mike Rogers of Berwick, Maine perform with balladeer John Perrault a dozen times, but never knew he was a poet. My theory is that we’re all poets, somewhere inside. Most people fight to keep the poems in. The rest of us just can’t -- and out they come.

Lately I’ve been soliciting stories for a "biography" I’m writing of the Wentworth Hotel in New Castle , built in 1874. About 40 people have called or written to me in the last month, but only Mike Rogers sent his memories in verse. He worked in the kitchen in the aging seaside summer resort as the Sixties faded and the Beatles broke up. Here he remembers two characters, hard-bitten back-room men, the kind of guys who rarely make it into poetry. That’s why I like them.

Now that old kitchen is gone, replace by a shiny new one. But you can find Mike today at www.HarmonicaWorkshops.com where he and his wife Beverly offer, you guessed it, harmonica workshops. They also perform with Lee Hosack as the Salt River Trio. I see they’ve got a new CD out. I’ll bet it’s filled with poems, of a sort, that they just couldn’t hold inside. -- JDR

KITCHEN HELP
Two poems by Mike Rogers

BIG RED

Summer drew him, a lemming,
to the big hotel at the edge of the sea.
Knight of the road
without damsel, horse or quest.
His W-4 read: "Main Street, U.S.A".

Six feet plus he loomed.
A frizzy ring of monkish hair
wrapped the back of his head,
thick mats of copper thread
shielded his freckled forearms,
proclaimed his moniker.
Bent, round, wire-rimmed glasses
crouched on plastic feet atop a pug nose.
Small, widely-spaced, yellowed teeth
lined his smile.

Walloping pots in the big stainless sink,
his stance defied all pretenders to the throne.
A no-nonsense man submerged in his calling.
During breaks, the yarn spinner regaled us
with tales of kitchen intrigue
from across the land in times gone by.
It was his life, his justification.

The menthol cigarette, phoenix rising from between his lips,
a constant companion.
Each inhalation a grimace, followed by expulsion
through puffed cheeks and pouted mouth…
Father Wind propelling ancient, striped sail-clad vessels
across a storybook cover.
He built an image with three packs a day.
Smoke rings drifted up between us,
separating man from child.
His laughter choked, threatened to drown him.

In the fall, he would slip away, unnoticed
to the other coast;
Flotsam, caught in the rainbow current
of an oil-slicked puddle.

 
CANNED HEAT



Dim light from a 60-watt bulb
carves sharp shadow lines
across the dirty concrete floor
in the dormitory bathroom.

Wilbur keeps his thick, white hair
trimmed and carefully combed.
Distinguished, horn-rimmed glasses
fail to hide blood-shot eyes
that peer from a face
as wrinkled as the paper bag
that holds the stolen can of sterno.

Liver-spotted hands shake with deprivation,
scoop wax from the container,
wrap it in cheesecloth,
squeeze and squeeze again,
until raw, alcoholic poison
drips into the glass of cola.

Steady now, use both hands
bring it safely to the lips,
knock it back, drive the dragons,
memories of a life destroyed,
back into their cave.
Fire burns upward from the bowel,
slows trembling in the limbs.

He turns to the mop and bucket
that wait, like a summoned taxi,
to carry him
to his next real drink.
 
"Bog Red" and "Canned Heat" copyright (c) 2003
by Mike Rogers
Commentary and web page (c) 2003 by SeacoastNH.com
Mike Rogers photo courtesy of Harmonica Workshops.     
      

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