8673. MAN WITH A BEND

MAN WITH A BEND

I am a mannerism of one : sliding

a pencil along a long, dark chute.

Holding red bread under the open

fauceting water. You know no one 

speaks like that, but maybe they 

oughtt'a  -  harm comes to the

cyclist, and the pedestrian too.

-

It was April, the year of the first.

No saying what, just the year of

the first. The sidewalks had 

thawed. The buses still ran to

Perth Amboy. Most all things

seemed old and settled in. 

-

I used to work, in Amboy, 

across from the synagogue, 

when there was a synagogue 

there. Now there's nothing,

and all those old ancients are

gone as well. It was just an

office , selling subscriptions.

No big deal at all.

-

But that young Winter, I hated

that space  -  and would walk 

outside instead. I'd rather door to

door, walking the neighborhoods

and all those Spanish wives - not

knowing, only half understanding

what I was trying to sell. Good

Housekeeping, Women's Day

(Dia Senorita!?). What did I

know. They'd nod.

-

Sometimes they'd sign a little

subscription book, fork over

my $7.95. They'd get 9 months

of that shit, in the mail. Like

carrying a kid made out of paper. 

'Buenas Dias, Mamacita!'