7679. I'VE GOT CHANGE AND I'VE GOT TO FIND IT

 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.

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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.

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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.

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Dead pigeons and blood, drooped everywhere.

Stupid bastards with their guns. The rest of the

flocks, just stunned, would sit there and coo.