Before the Black Dog Restaurant became as well known as apple pie,
there was Helios, where the waitresses were at one time mermaids,
kissed and lured inland by a few sailors.

The hanging sign, a gold sun, promised merriment and delight.
But I can not remember what was good there, for food . . .

Ah ha! The waitresses, they'd twirl around, dancer bodies
in pretty skirts, entrancing.

I desired the radiant beauty. To enter that place, I'd go inside
drawings on tea boxes, and order a dessert I was only half interested in.

The menu featured 'specials' in colored chalk,
flowery curvy writing . . .

Ah ha! The waitresses, their sing song wiles:
"Ready for your order?"

I was concealed, blushing behind my father, who was like a ship
on the verge of wrecking. I imagined myself rescued by these women
of manumission. Which one would take me home?
Would it be the lady whose curly hair was tinted with Henna,
or the silky golden girl?

We'd take trips inside the cartons of tea:
I am a 'Celestial Crusader,' nestled in with the 'Sleepy Time' bear;
rose colored toes in a cup of 'Red Zinger';
in a smoky room with the 'Emperor'
- his 'Choice?' the tea, of course!

Caffeine was out in the desert running wild with the bulls,
chasing the 'Morning Thunder.'
I was especially fond of 'Pelican Punch.'
Pelicans looked prehistoric, exotic, yet obtainable, an unusual pet.
The punch part made me think of Kool Aid for sophisticated kids.

When Dad, Sister Jenny and I would arrive at the Black Dog for
'Italian, Mexican, Chinese Night,' or some such 'Night,' I'd order
my tea, and hide from the tough bushy 'Dog' girls, and think of
the giggly wiggly ways of those happy gals at Helios.

Too close to my own reflection, I'd be drowning in a cup of
'Red Zinger'; tart hibiscus, you drink it because the liquid
is so bright and unreal it could possibly be medicinal.
The effect will take you to a place where hot mojo abounds,
where shimmering skirts whirl and twist like circus tents caught
in a wind-storm rising to heaven. A chariot driven by four horses
is the only ride to the after hours soirée.
It's an 'Invitation Only' event . . .

Ah ha! The waitresses, all light hearted gaiety:
"Ready for your seat?"
Salty men, ripe for the picking, take cover behind their menus.
Their anxious wives stand in line, holding out for a table,
but the husbands are lost at sea,
gone loco for these land bound mermaids.

I couldn't help but feel I was part of the crew at Helios.
Anyhow, who was I but a tow-headed kid caught in the cross road
of an era?

I imagine the gold sun still there.
The magic has grown through the oak trees,
where the building once stood.
I can still see it, the parking lot full of VWs
and Ford pick-up trucks. The place looked like a town meeting
between cowboys, farmers and 'free love,' everyman acting a part,
everybody a player.

I go to the place where I'd be counting the minutes
behind the back doors of my boyhood home,
staring out at my dad through the glass.
He'd be jumping rope on the back porch, Fleetwood Mac blaring from the stereo,
and then the landslide brought me down.
I imagined he saw it through his own reflection, and I'd wave,
but he kept jumping, one foot over the next, or both feet up,
through criss-crosses, rope to one side, then the other.
He masters his fancy footwork,
and the rope makes scars in the wood.

I dream of Helios, and the reverie winds around me.
An erstwhile shadow casts a sound less then a whisper:

"Ah ha! The waitresses . . .
YOU SAW THE MAGIC, THE MERMAIDS.
THE SUN IS SO BRIGHT YOU BURNED THERE,
BUT NEVER KNEW IT UNTIL NOW."