Papo
Gone less than a year.
Goodbye is not forgotten;
Wish you were still here.
my hand rests
on the long table
next to the silver
cutlery
plant by the corner
door exit has grown
i often pour
cupfuls onto it
there are no questions here my
hand is still
on the table
infinite
laden by me and, ive decided,
splintered
by the hand
when it will lighten, grow, i plant
myself into
the table
splinter silver
cultery
then finally
they creak through
the opening
While shopping the pharmacy at the grocery store
I turned the corner and came upon it:
The Great Wall of Gummies in all its glory
Vitamins A, B, C, D . . . well you know the alphabet
But I wasn’t aware of the more exotic –
Shameless snack gummies (Keto, of course)
Guava bat guano gummies (all organic)
Mr.Breast Karl gummies (low sugar, no breasts)
All shaped like bears and zebras and nerds, oh my!
And the sign – Coming Soon
Red white and blue 4th of July gummies
Spicy enough to set off fireworks in your mouth
Stuck in an apartment or no place to grill?
Steak juice gummies with a hint of parsley
Charred zucchini gummies for the vegans
Can’t get to the state fair this summer?
Cotton candy gummies and fried pickle gummies
Fun balloon shapes for the kiddies
Just think of the dazzling future – no dishes to wash
No meals to plan, no fuss or mess
(Sigh) The American Dream has turned squishy
How are you?
I miss you. A lot.
I wish you were here to get the new you in check. Maybe you’re still in there somewhere.
I need you right now though.
I was thinking the other day about how excited I used to be when you got home.
How sad I was when you’d leave.
I hate how that’s gone now.
I miss you. I hope you’re still around.
I love you.
A letter to the dad you used to be
A letter to the father you’ll never become
How my father answered the phone
at our market on the corner of Cincinnati’s
two busy streets. In a photo he stands
Samson-like, hand on the pole holding up
the building’s corner,
in his grocer’s apron
(Mom made me a miniature version),
ready to chop on the rough wooden block
behind the meat counter—
an ancient artifact brought
from a Sumerian temple—
where he was high priest of butchers.
Here I learned the trade I would
never follow, instead living-lessons—
early to open always,
meeting customer’s needs,
friendly to all,
selling something of everything—
and how to make change
counting
backwards,
a lost skill today.
Perhaps the best tribute to a father
came years later in the seminary from Br. Ricardo,
who admitted stealing candy from my dad:
When someone asked,
“Did you ever pay Mr. Friedman back?”
“Hell,” he answered,
“I’m living with his kid!”
The ants came out on the second day.
And the leaky faucet.
The windows without screens.
A lack of three-prong outlets in the kitchen,
where they’re needed, and their excess
in closets where they’re not.
The creak in the floorboards.
This loose door handle.
That lock that won’t stay set.
The shy shower with its brave attempt
at “on.”
Window sashes slamming shut, hung on ropes
that gave up the ghost five tenants ago.
But what’s a girl to do?
By then, you’d already called me baby.
It was love at first walk-through.
I am here to stay.
train whistle
a plane crosses Jupiter
it’s five below 0
we who have
slept on the hitch-
hike road
in packing crates
under bridges
in torrential rain
now
watch from the window
snow fall
ice world
going nowhere
together
