Francis W. Alexander

Blue Light

As the wind howls and blows outside my window, I sit at my computer cleaning out the email inbox. "Blue light posters," the Spenser's advertisement proclaims as mushrooms, bud, Bob Marley, a fractal spiral, and other posters glide across the monitor. Memories surface and pull me back to younger times. It's not long before I'm thinking about The Anchor Room, a restaurant adjacent to The Coffee Shop Restaurant of the Hotel Breakers.

It's a mysterious place and might as well be as far away as China, since dishwashers were usually forbidden entrance. But there were always exceptions. Once I was permitted to enter that hallowed place to deliver silverware. Candlelight competed with blue light and belly danced off the love entranced faces of finely dressed couples. On the wall, a huge mural of a ship at anchor bathed in blue bobbed below the moon's yellow grin. I wanted to hop into the picture, bask in its blue glow as the water licked my face, and listen to the soothing roar and swash of the waves. <p align="left">

doughnut breakfast –
the powdered gray cheeks
of the morning sky