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!”