I was that boy whose papa
took him far into the city
that never closed to the Horn
& Hardardt Automat, universe

of bright windows filled with
manna or chicken pot pie
too piping hot to touch, bought
with a shower of nickels

carried to a table of strangers
where none had guns or talked
to himself too loud and one lady
in rouge said hello honey.

My father and me, our bellies
full, driving and dreaming
down the dark streets at
about a hundred miles an hour,

puffy scar beneath his chin
from when he fell asleep behind
the wheel in Brooklyn, spectre
of failure sitting on his neck

and me beside him, I was
that boy who stole a silver spoon
from the Horn & Hardardt
automat. I wish I had it now,

a real thing in a world of dreams
already vanishing, reflected
in a spoon, a glimpse of delicate
quick fingers, secret rooms.

Uncle Ernie's Belt
Poem = Uncle Ernie's Belt

If I look through
the diamonds cut in Uncle Ernie's belt---
but for me

it would have gone to strangers in the sale--
I can see Aunt Marie
studying the blue distance overhead because blue

is her favorite color
the color of heaven and if she were not human
she would be a bird

who flies past the hiatal hernias of this earth
to nest in heaven.
She is kneeling down now in the rhubarb patch

in the tidy garden
she forgets she must stop tending because her heart
is a pumpkin ready

to explode she says as she catches her breath
but she can't help
looking out for her babies the old man with whiskers

the stubborn bells
of the lilies of the valley that will not stop
ringing beside

the broken windmill the wind whistling
through and the listing
garage that already needed paint last year.


Here is a dark place
on the belt where Marie had to hold on tight
to raise Ernie up

after Parkinson's had pinned him to the mat
and haul him from bed
to chair and back again and speak into his ear

Do you know me?
the belt looped around the middle of his body
Do you know me dear?

Poetry Magazine