Passaic Street Blues

1

Rows of trees

Line 8th Street

Planted by hands

Not familiar

With this soil,

Living four families

in two room

cold water flats,

a half centuries

dead leaves falling

at our feet as

we walk passed

the house Hot Lips

lived in

before she made TV

her picture in every

Polish store

As prominent

As the Virgin Mary’s,

Local taverns

Holding parties

To celebrate even

The reruns,

This being 1989

And her father

Already two years

In the grave

Leaving one

Whole floor

Of her house vacant

A gap even the trees

Can’t fill,

Though the prostitutes

Stroll by it

With the same reverence

The nuns hold

Passing a church,

Mumbling about

“our Loretta,”

With some even

Remembering those

Rare days when

She came to visit

Her family,

Surrounded by

Henchmen

And body guards,

Staring down

The line of trees

As if suspicious

Even of the changing leaves

2

They screech

At the lightest thing

At mice crawling

Under the door,

The wind rattling

Panes of glass,

One spirit so small

They could crush it

Between forefinger

And thumb

And not burn a calorie,

While no one

Even remotely

Understands the wind.

Fear imprinted

On their genes,

Panicking over

The inevitable call of death,

Calculating when

And if

The cancer gets them,

While leaping up

With each squeak

The mouse makes

As if these are one

In the same.

3

What do you give

A dying man

When life have

Brought him down

For the final count,

Bed pans banging

Instead of the boxing bell,

Strangers prodding each

Hole to find out

Where the disease

All started,

Instruments hooked

Into him to

Calculate when

The final moment

Comes,

Odd faces with

Raised brows

Watching for

When that spirit

Rises out of him,

As if to feed,

And he refusing

To let go,

Not wanting to

Give in,

And give them

The satisfaction

Of knowing

He got beat

By blows from

The inside out,

An opponent

With no boxing gloves

Only the ability

To multiply

In parts of him

He can’t see.

4

We flock like geese

When we see it come

Clutching our rosary beads

Against what we can’t see,

Stressed to death

In fear of the cold,

This life the only life

Any of us know,

Tempting fate

But never so far as

To give up faith,

Even when the clock tick

Tells us what the doctor

Won’t, but we guess

And huddle

And hope for the best,

Wondering about the sleep

That comes after a long

Or even short life

And what we might

Wake up to

As this thing

Eats at us,

Will the world

Be green,

The way spring is

After winter,

And will we in our

Sleep feel not cold

Or hard or lonely,

But warm, and immune

To passing time?

5

She was the lady

In the health food store

We flocked to

For immorality,

That shop a hop

Skip and jump

From Passaic Street

As she peddled

Vitamins and herbs

The way Marcus Welby

Did pain pills,

A sure scenario for

Disaster we thought

Even before

Her grieved husband

Informed us

About the surgery

In the brain

No herb could reach,

As he shuffled

Early-aged

Among the rows of

Bottles out of which

He could find

No magical cure,

For her

Or for the loss he felt

When he thought

They’d found

Nirvana in a bottle,

Now, all he sees in each

Is the image of his dead

Wife, Mary,

The rosary beads

She kept behind

The register

She called

Her insurance policy,

He didn’t know

How to cash in.