Mass Ave

                                          Another Old Poem

The shots were still heard the next day outside the
KFC, and the boy falling was replayed over and over as
regrets and sympathies were cut and pasted from old
tragedies.

It would make sense that the grimacing had nothing to
do with the wrenching in my calves as I two-stepped
before each crack in the sidewalk while the begrudging
father secured the grasp, clicking a thumbnail to a
pinkie.

But I was elsewhere, somewhere on I-90 in 1991, near
Erie in a diner just at the beginning of the steak and
potato days. And just before the faces blurred in a
sea of loose-fitting shirts and hanging belts,
everything tightening to me like a Labor Day dunking.


How much I mean the jokes: The one about the less than
ample opportunities for salvation and such to the
attorney, pulling in all loose ends.

There will be no more road races or demos to laugh at,
and the resentment will all be from the sulfur in the
pills and the wish realized.

But you try to fit in a redemptive act or two between
tee-times and conference calls. Port Au Prince is
flooded with calls and there's no line at
Christopher's.