I'VE GOT CHANGE AND
I'VE GOT TO FIND IT
Walking the back ways of Woodbridge is endless
and why should I try or remark? These old homes from
another era try singing but fail. The Police Station keeps
a parking garage swagger, and that seems all that
it has. Piles of rubble, people with their City Hall
permits, and two kids mouthing off at the Kwik-Chek
nearby. Guaranteed, even they will be cops in 5 years.
That granary there - I used to work in - it's a brewery
now, some artisinal beer sit-down joint where people
dine. In 1967 it was filled to the gills with pigeons and
their droppings. We worked in the front two sections
and left the rear alone - the tall part, where the freight
cars had once dumped the grain when the siding there
was active. Must have been 200 pigeons, constantly
roosting and cooing. The guy I worked for, Ron, he'd
occasionally let open the back for two Spanish guys
who'd come from Perth Amboy with rifles.
They'd set themselves up and just start shooting pigeons.
They'd get 50 or 60, gather them up, and take them
home to cook and eat. Just the idea used to make me
sick, and the gunpowder smell, with the noise, was
enough to wipe me out. I'd leave - always had a
reason to jump in the car for deliveries. We did
legal-printing, for the courts, briefs and appeals
and transcripts, and things had to get to be docketed
by certain hours, so they'd always be sending me off,
to Newark or New York or Philadelphia or Trenton,
with parcels of printing that had to be there by three.
When the courts closed. I rush out of there, sad.
Dead pigeons and blood, drooped everywhere.
Stupid bastards with their guns. The rest of the
flocks, just stunned, would sit there and coo.