Ann Arbor Review


Silvia Scheibli
'Deji W. Adesoye
Chris Lord
Ali Znaidi
Paul B. Roth
Umm-e-Aiman Vejlani
Lyn Lifshin
Laszlo Slomovits
Naim Kelmendi
Richard Kostelanetz
Anton Gojcaj
Duane Locke
Jennifer Burd
David Ishaya Osu
Steve Barfield
Miguel A Bernao Burrieza
Richard Gartee
Violeta Allmuca
Alan Britt

Fred Wolven
Ilire Zajmi
Running Cub
Donal Mahoney
Fahredin Shehu
Peter Tase
Nahshon Cook
Al Ortolani
Alex Ferde
Anton Frost

Michelle Bailat-Jones
Lazlo Slomovits & Jennifer Burd

Karyn M. Bruce
A. J. Huffman
Michael D. Long


Ann Arbor Review

is an independent

International Journal & ezine

Copyright (c) 2014 Francis Ferde
All rights revert back to each poet.
--editor / Southeastern Florida

Francis Ferde
Silver Grey Fox
Running Cut
Fred Wolven

Submissions via e-mail:





One hand slapping time

on the green Formica countertop

to Ricky Nelson on the juke box

­­–Well, hello Mary Lou…

the other hand absently spinning

an empty stool, round and round.

Ricky fades, gears whir, platters change

–You can’t sit down…

A poodle skirt brushes against his hand, “I can’t?”


His eyes jerk up,

the brunette with a shoulder-length page boy

from geometry.

Oh, God, was he subconsciously singing aloud?

Fire races up his cheeks.

He yanks his hand off the stool

which continues to whirl.

She halts it with her bare knee.

He notices the knee,

stocking stopping just below it,

hemline hovering just above it


In one fluid movement,

she drops her books on the counter,

sweeps her forearm under her skirt, and sits.


He studiously focuses on the gray pate

of tightly permed curls reflected

in the mirrored wall behind the counter,

on the woman bent deep in the frost rimmed freezer

scooping hard packed ice cream into fluted glass dishes

and chrome milk shake cups

while cold vapor escapes around her short arms.


His blushing visage is in the reflection, too,

and next to that, a girl wearing

a pink Orlon sweater, a size too small.

Or intentionally bought like that?

Either way doesn’t matter; it’s the same effect.


The old lady turns from the freezer case

and asks what she wants

“Vanilla Coke.”

“Large or small?”

…a quick glance his way, “Large, please.”

She gives her best cheerleader smile.


The waitress doesn’t care, it’s been twenty years

since she’d been the girl on the stool.

Her motions are routine,

shovel ice in the Coke glass,

pump the syrup plunger with her palm,

put the glass under the chrome spigot,

pull on its black Bakelite handle.


Soda water rushes out in a noisy torrent, washing

the thick syrup off the ice cubes in brown eddies.

From under the counter materializes a bottle of vanilla,

a couple of shakes, a few drops fall,

then a quick stir with a long silver spoon.

She sets the glass on a paper lace doily

and lays a straw next to it, “15 cents.”

Carbonation bubbles effervesce above the rim.


The girl fiddles with the gold clasp on her change purse.

He swivels a quarter turn in her direction and eyes the Coke

wishing for all the world he knew the magic to change it

into a malt with two straws.






Richard Gartee, Gainesville, Florida



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