CURSIVE

In second grade he couldn’t wait to unlock
the mystery of longhand, cursive, handwriting.
He looked forward to hours of continuous circles,
lines to push up, lines to pull down, rows of loops
and don’t forget the 45 degree slant of the page.

A Papermate pen, shiny silver, a two heart logo
on a pocket clip, Prussian blue, on the bottom.
He took pride in showing everyone a huge bump,
the callous, the disfigurement caused by the grip
of the writing utensil, an instrument for recording
ones ideas, to share, to express, to give an answer.

And each year his efforts did not go unnoticed or
in vain, he reached his goal of “Perfect Handwriting”,
receiving, what else- a piece of paper with perfect
printing on it, “Best Handwriting, Fifth Grade, 1978”.

Now as his hand aches from clutching a pen,
you can barely tell the a’s from the o’s and so on,
he wishes that he had one of those certificates to
hang on his wall, next to his desk where he types
on the keyboard of a computer every day, every night.

DAMN IT

is what he shouted as he smacked his thigh
and splattered someone else’s blood all over.
After swatting the first mosquito of the summer,
he no longer could relax and enjoy his new
folding chair on the small concrete back porch.
He sat, waiting for the next bite,unable to
enjoy the gift of the cool breezes in mid June.
Planning his next killing was all he thought of now.

HYDRANGEAS

need lots of water, that’s why
they gots hydra in their name,
is what a garden center worker
said to me and I replied makes
sense, never gave it much thought.

Instead what I was thinking about
was how they formed a thick hedge
of blue and purple flowers, a clustered
snowball of tiny delicate blossoms.

In my youth, I walked up Columbia Avenue
past the Victorian mansion where Boston ferns
hung on a porch lined with white wicker chairs
and a grand hammock, never ever occupied.

In the yard, Saabs, Volvos, and Peugeots from
Maryland and Virginia sat on a crushed clamshell
driveway, while the guests laughed and played
croquet on the lawn, waiting a dainty bell to
signal them all to come for four o’clock tea.

Strange to see them living a lifestyle from
the past and one day walking by, I told my
grandmother that I planned to have a hedge
of hydrangeas too in my yard when I grow up
and she replied, We always had them too at
my mother’s house, down on Washington Street.

REMEMBERING YOU,COUSIN

You placed me in a beer box and
we made a sled out of it and slid
down a snowless hill in Newburgh.
We lined up green plastic Army men
on the red rug of Nana’s kitchen
and you explained to me how we
would throw a clothes pin back and
forth until the last man was standing.

You took me to the movies to see
Barbara Striesand’s What’s Up Doc?
and being a five year old, I cried from
boredom and wanted to go home.
We played wiffle ball and Frisbee on
the Decatur Street beach and for
years we climbed among the jetties
and pilings in search of crabs, starfish.

We rode in your primer scarred Pontiac
to the baseball fields on Lafayette Street
where we hit and caught softballs for
hours in the hot sun of August, playing
the roles of Schmidt, Carlton, and Luzinski.

Years passed, our families grew apart,
we lost track of one another, but always
spoke of how we should go see a Phillies
game together, I’d call you, we’d get tickets
meet up at the stadium, have a few beers,
talk about growing up at the Jersey Shore.

And today, I am here, too late to meet you
at the ballpark, instead I am here for your
memorial service, too broken up to read
what I have written to honor our kinship.

THE KING'S HIGHWAY

The deli is empty now, just me waiting
with an empty chip bag, a straw wrapper,
an oval platter with a puddle of pickle juice.

Rain falls steadily on one of America’s last
main streets, where all the stores are up and
running, open for business regardless of the
headlines about our ever struggling economy.
This is a place where so many have so much.

My mind wanders from the reason I’m here.
I listen closely, song lyrics come from a back room.
I begin to wonder where they got the old juke box
glowing first yellow, then pink, then neon blue like a
huge lava lamp, an avalanche of songs from childhood.

Frankie Valli, The Commodores, Love Train by The O’Jays
all old now, just like me. Strangely they’re all happy songs
bringing back good memories. Today I’ve decided to be
alone for a while, to think about why or how you are gone.

PHOTO-http://www.flickr.com/photos/squirrelhugger/33955150/