Everyone All the Same
A rainy day in March
Two thirty, our ties stuffed in our
Pockets,
Our shirts untucked.
Fred has just gotten his license and he
Likes to drive
...............Fast.
The old two-family house on
A pizza place about three years ago,
But none of us can remember when, exactly.
Just showed up.
Smelled good.
Rocky's.
"Lithuanians," my grandfather says,
His tone not quite derogatory but not
Really all that accepting, either.
The smell of after-school and fog
And the way the concrete front steps disappear
Into the slope of the sidewalk on one end
Make me wonder if I'll ever leave,
Or ever miss this place once I have left.
I can't fathom such a scenario.
The guy on the ovens is a
bodybuilder; Fred and I
Have seen pictures.
"The Kid" folds boxes
In the farthest booth and
Speaks a language Fred and I don't understand.
We sit by the window and dump red pepper flakes on
Our slices, talk about school, how much we hate
Pre-calculus, how we don't get Religion class.
Just barely, out the window, I can see the plastic sign
JARJURA FOR MAYOR
And isn't that the way it works here? Stop in for a
Slice and walk away with a new Mayor.
"Do you think this city's cheap?" I ask Fred.
He throws a plate at me for no reason,
Ostensibly answering my question...I think.
The Lithuanians selling Italian. The Italians
Selling City Hall and a church in Town Plot.
Sure. The Puerto Ricans own
Downtown and the Polish have their club on
The other side of town.
In the middle, somewhere, is the road on which
Fred likes to drive...