HOSPITAL CURTAINS

Another trip to the hospital

she coughed too much,

moaned in pain, didn’t know

she was fighting to stay on Earth.

Didn’t know her or her story,

her diagnosis or her name.

We feel guilty now, for hearing

her take her last breath as she

passed from this world.

We sat nearby, as the nurse tells

the husband how she has died.

I shouldn’t have seen his face as

he stared blankly the silent body-

his wife for more than fifty years.

Can I call your children for you?

We never had any.

Does she have a brother or sister?

They’re all gone.

Is there anyone you’d like me to call?

I don’t think so.

You let me know. Are you ok?

I just don’t know how I’m going to tell the dog.

He loves her so much and she loved him.

FIRST FRIENDS

After a while, it will happen- swing a lot, drag your feet,

puddles form below swings, but only if you use it a lot.

There’s a photo somewhere of me and the girl next door.

A snapshot from 1969, bundled up babies, a chilly spring.

We’re staring with beady eyes, no smiles, serious faces,

small hands clutching cold chains, no idea of the future.

Flip it over, all the white bordered photographs of the time,

have names, dates, places, and sometimes little sayings.

Words written in blue ink, a mother’s perfect cursive writing.

LESSONS LEARNED

(AT AN EARLY AGE WHILE LIVING IN LOW INCOME HOUSING, 1974)

Sometimes in life

it’s a good idea to hide in the corner behind a red naugahyde chair.

Sometimes in life

you have to pound on the steering wheel and shout, “you know I wanted ice cream”!

Sometimes life tastes like

Swanson pot pies, Campbell’s soup, Quisp cereal, a packet of Wyler’s juice

Sometimes life feels like

the shot gun blast that killed the old guy who was the apartment manager.

Sometimes it’s like

an across the hall neighbor out of her mind on acid running in with a butcher knife.

Sometimes in life

you have to push the furniture in front of the door before going to bed.

Sometimes life is about

lawyers in the living room and toys you’re forbidden to play with.

Sometimes it’s

your cat having kittens in the closet, but you can’t keep one of them.

Sometimes life

burns like shampoo in the eyes or it cuts like a broken water glass.

Sometimes it sounds like

a Carpenters album, a Gilligan’s Island laugh track, the Banana Splits theme song.

Sometimes in life

you want Mrs. Beasley with her polka dot dress, not the red heart shaped pillow.

Sometimes life is like

pulling GI Joe’s string and the only thing he ever says is, “I've got a tough assignment for you”.

JETTY GEORGE

hooked a bluefish, so did Tommy, his busboy.

Pop and I caught weakfish on the Fishin’ Fool.

Worth missing a day at the beach. I remember

how the Royal Flush party boat blasted by and

put us in a wake, rocked us, made us struggle to

bring in our catch of the day, but we reeled it in.

Two slabs under the broiler with lemon and butter,

and a Kodak moment above my desk for eternity.

WE BOUGHT HOCKEY STICKS IN 1974

at Riley’s Sporting Goods on Laurel Street,

sawed them off if they seemed too long.

South Jersey side streets, makeshift games

whacking a plastic ball at the one boy with

a mask, pads, and goalie stick. He’d block

them all and kids chanted like fans at the

Spectrum- Bernie! Bernie! Bernie! Bernie!

We pretended to be Broad Street Bullies-

Bobby Clarke, Bill Barber, Dave Schultz.

In school, we drew pictures of them with

clenched fists, black eyes, teeth missing,

orange sweaters with the famous flying P.

Saturday nights we’d put on Channel 29

in the back room, a fire always burned and

Pop smoked El Productos in his easy chair.

Kate Smith’s God Bless America, the voice

of Gene Hart delivered play by play of battles

with Blackhawks, Redwings, and Canadians.

At Christmas, we asked for black and orange

coats, hats, everyone wanted to be a big fan.

Before bed we’d drink milk in glasses with the

unforgettable saying- Lord Stanley Lives in Philly! 

MONSTER MOVIES ON TV, B.C.

Television before cable, 13 channels if you count the UHF,

did it even work, remember antennas on all the rooftops?

When the set was busted, we’d say Oh no, better call Ono!

Mr. Ono, a TV repair guy knew how to get it working again.

Now we put them on the curb, head on down to Best Buy.

Creature Double Feature on 48, Dr. Shock on channel 17 

from Philly, same time, Saturday afternoons, the Seventies.

Mighty Joe Young always on Channel 9, not sure about 5,

maybe that’s where Abbott and Costello met the monsters?

Now we laugh, can’t believe we watched in black and white.

When it was a little chilly and rainy on a Saturday, she’d say

Be a good day for a nap on the sofa and a Godzilla movie.

How come they don’t have any scary movies on TV anymore?

Only people our age would know what she meant by this.

Now it’s easy, she grabs the remote and finds one on Netflix.

MINIMUM WAGE

I didn't find it in the help wanted pages,

a friend who’d worked there gave me a tip.

Call them up, they need workers for a crew,

hired on, ready to work, we started in June.

Painting tables and poles in the hot sun,

3.35 an hour, I remember the first check.

At 18, I was strong, never wanted to quit,

saving for college, tuition was due soon.

We loaded trucks with tents, chairs and stages

hit the road with the men on my very first run.

Excited to be in Delaware, Philadelphia, A.C.

long hours, time and a half made it opportune.

The education it gave me was one for the ages,

don’t stop, you’re finished when the work is done.

BOONDOCKERS

On Saturday morning I jumped out of bed,

put on my husky Toughskins, tube socks,

a Flyers ski cap and a red plaid flannel shirt.

I laced up my boondockers and headed off

to the woods of my youth in South Jersey.

I heard men laughing, the chainsaws buzzing,

logs clunking into the bed of an old Ford pickup.

I found my Grandfather with his teacher friends

on the edge of a soy bean field, near the pond

I’d fallen into more than thirty some years ago.

I ran to the forest, stopped to exchange stares

with a whitetail deer, found the brook where

the scared muskrats scurried and an otter swam.

I climbed trees, crossed streams, chucked rocks,

took cover behind maples, charged a hill with sticks,

breathed in cold fresh air and it made me invincible.

THE JOY OF SHADOW PUPPETS

Those were the days of record players,

View-Masters, filmstrips, and projectors.

Watching a movie in school meant it had

to be set up carefully, ahead of time by a

teacher who knew how to thread it over

loops, metal frames, rollers, and spindles.

We watched filmstrips and felt honored

when chosen to be the one to turn a knob.

We listened carefully for a narrator to stop

and heard the “boop” from a record player.

At the end of each filmstrip or movie viewing

we’d fall all over each other, like little moths

wanting to get to the screen to try and make

shadow puppets on the wall. It didn’t last long,

as the teacher ended it quickly with her usual-

“All right, all right. That’s enough. Settle down.”

Thirty five years later it’s a new age with 

iPads, X-box, internet, DVD players in cars.

I’m the teacher now and present each lesson

with a laptop, Power Point, and LCD projector.

Strangely,after the advances in technology and

all the time that’s passed, kids still find magic in

trying to make barking dogs or soaring eagles with

their hands, a bulb’s glare and shadows on the wall.

And that's why I pause before shutting off the light.

HISTORY OF LACROSSE

At least once a summer, walking along the beach,

I’d stop to watch my grandfather interrupt students

from Maryland playing with fancy new lacrosse sticks.

He’d ask to take a turn and they always obliged and

smiled as he cradled the ball in the pocket before

whipping it to the other young man. “Oh boy”, he’d say,

then pause, examine the netting and grip before nodding

and thanking them. Off we’d go down the boardwalk

past Ocean Deck, Taylor Pork Roll, and all the little shops.

 He’d tell me stories about his days as a defenseman

playing with the Bear Mountain Cubs, for Springfield in ’32,

his knee injury and officiating for the plebes at West Point.

He’d laugh at young people who thought it was a new sport.

He’d talk about the tribes in New York state, the tradition

and most of all his vivid memories of his old teammates.

My grandfather, D.Bewick- back row, third from the left.

CONSUMED BY WORK

It was the summer of working night and day,

eighty hour weeks, for banking paychecks to

pay tuition, being on call, always ready to go.

It was the summer of Genesis, Van Halen and

Whitesnake’s Here I Go Again, TDK blank tapes,

high top sneakers, hair gel, my first CD player.

It was the summer of learning to be a supervisor

of a crew, being responsible, firing of men for

lateness, leaning on shovels, and reckless driving.

It was the summer of 7-11 hot dogs, quarts of milk,

softball sized peaches, Lowenbrau nips, and Fridays

meant cheeseburger subs from Gallee’s Market.

It was the summer of not going to baseball games,

not going to the boardwalk, swimming in the ocean,

and for not spending time with high school friends.

It was the last summer of living in my hometown,

driving my first car, cutting someone else’s lawn,

dealing with other people’s anger, and being alone.

KINDNESS UNLIMITED

Right out of high school, the impressionable years.

I got a job, saved my paychecks to pay for college.

Ate 7-11’s two for a dollar hot dogs for every meal.

Drank a quart of milk in the morning, a quart at night.

Gave my summers to the place, heavy labor in the sun,

in the rain, humidity, strawberry flies and greenheads.

All hours of the night, delivering to the shore towns

of Margate, Ventnor, Longport and Atlantic City.

Other days we went to Philly, Medford, Cherry Hill.

He always bought lunch. I was always ready to go.

On weekends we’d fish all day in Bay and drink

Stroh’s beer with clients to line up more business.

His wife worked alongside us prepping equipment,

loading trucks, staging the orders and wearing the

same uniform- brown pants, tan shirts, work boots.

She taught me to drive stick shift in a 20 foot truck.

She showed me how to change the oil in the vans.

She gave me a few lessons on how to change a flat.

On my last day, she arranged a ride for me back to

college in a truck delivering an order to the Hyatt.

I remember crying as I said goodbye to them and

when the van pulled away, I never saw them again.

Years later, he told me they’d gotten divorced.

He’s got a new business, she lives with her girlfriend.

A VIEW FROM THE BRIDGE

Like an awkward visit back to first grade

with its tiny chairs and puny desks, a trip

home reminds me of how long it’s been.

I’m confused when I drive by past places,

through neighborhoods with no one left.

I’m amazed by the growth of maple trees,

something has managed to thrive in town.

Businesses are closed on Commerce Street,

no signs of victory on the corner of Laurel.

Broad Street isn’t as wide as it used to be

and Pearl Street, no longer a precious gem.

A friend wrote in his yearbook, “Get out of

town it’s a dusty road to nowhere” and from

here, it seems like everyone took his advice.

MOTH ON A PORCHLIGHT

He was the guy at work who could fix anything,

but he couldn’t fix himself. We found him crying

and belligerent in The Towne Tavern only days

after his brother passed from a heroin overdose.

Your weakness is what’s going to kill you, he said

as we drove him to the brick row house apartments.

He insisted I come in to see his new guitar, to hear

a song he’d learned. Hendrix and Santana posters

covered the walls and with each riff, tears rolled down

his cheek, a neighbor’s dog barked, his mother yelled.

After that summer, he almost got clean and sober.

Now twenty five years later, I came across his picture

in the paper, he’s on the run, evasion of child support.

Secretly, I pray he gets far away, I wonder if he's got his

guitar with him and hope one day he finds a way to kick it.

WEATHER CHANNEL DELUGE

“We’ve been through worse, I’m sure,” I said

remembering the days before computer models,

24 hours of coverage and thinking of how no one

would believe "the weather" having its own channel.

Twitter, Facebook, handheld baby computers, and

cell phones all keep us up to date, well informed.

All day we watched green, yellow, red splotches swirl

counterclockwise on a 52 inch screen and listened to

predictions more accurate than airport arrival times.

Years ago experts didn’t have to tell us what to buy.

We understood the dangers of a storm at the shore.

We knew what to do when the lights went out.

We’d light candles and sit listening to the downpours

knowing we’d be alright, it was just water and wind.

We’d hear the stories of past destructive hurricanes.

We’d head inland if we expected it to be real bad to

a friend’s house or to a cousin’s home in the country.

No mandatory evacuations- just plain common sense.

In the morning, like now, we’d get up to the sunshine,

mumble of prayer, comment about the cool breezes,

frown at kids wading in dirty water or the ones paddling

rowboats in the street without worrying about broken glass,

boards, power lines. It reminds me how my grandmother

always used to say,“ I bet old Frog Hollow is flooded”.

A STRAY

When I found you in the woods

it was obvious you’d be taught

to beg for food, to chase rabbits,

to fear the rolled up newspaper,

to cower and shrink from a broom.

You did not think of going inside,

that was the deal made in order

for you to stay with us for 10 years.

I didn’t know I’d be burying you

here, behind the tan shed on the

day before I was to leave for college.

BASEBALL UNDER GLASS

On any given day, in my backyard

you’ll find three or four basketballs,

a couple of soccer balls and in the

bottom of the closet you’ll find many

tennis, lacrosse, and baseballs too.

I know he hates it when I begin the

stories with- “when I was young, I…”

but I had only one ball for each sport.

It was expected that you’d take care

of your things, to put them away and

make sure you didn’t lose them because

you knew you wouldn’t get another one.

And that’s why, years later, on a visit

to my grandmother’s assisted living home

I watched as she limped and braced herself

as she opened the bottom dresser drawer.

Without saying a word she handed me

my old baseball, the only baseball I ever had.

She kept it safe for me, hid it when they had

the yard sales and the 40 yard dumpsters.

She put it away and presented it to me when

I came to visit with my three year old son.

Now it sits on my shelf, in a special case made

for an autographed World Series home run ball.

NONE OF MY BUSINESS- notes from Commerce Street

The names of the streets seem so ironic now-

Commerce, Laurel, Pearl and Broad Streets.

Plastic soda bottles closed the Glass Factories.

No smell of tomatoes cooking into ketchup,

no smell of dye boiling at the fabric company.

Workers and their families, are all long gone too.

It’s none of my business, but it was my hometown.

Department Stores, Woolworth’s, Beacon Auto,

The Enterprise Men’s Store, Morton’s Jewelers,

Riley’s Sporting Goods, Smashey’s Shoe Store,

even the Farmers and Merchants Bank is missing.

Tourism and Victorian architecture were suppose

to boost the economy and stop the city’s decline.

It’s none of my business, but it was my hometown.

When tourism failed, a bid for a new State prison

made the folks say, some will build it, some will

work as guards in it, many will end up living in it.

Victorian homes got divided and rented to multiple

families, you can tell by the dozen mailboxes on the

front porches put up by some landlord’s handyman.

It’s none of my business, but it was my hometown.

Stores are open-signs for calling cards, Ranchero music,

Santeria candles, Quinceañera party supplies, taco stands,

whatever else new citizens need to feel at home, at ease.

Men work all day in the fields of thriving nurseries while

young pregnant wives walk the streets with children in tow,

and older children wear maroon and khaki school uniforms.

It’s none of my business, but it was my hometown.

In the last few moments of my visit, I see Big John’s Pizza,

The Towne Tavern, and Terrigno’s Bakery-all still here.

And when I step into Weber’s Candy Store I go back in time

to the heyday of a Glass Town, when the downtown was

a showplace of commerce, industry, and community pride.

It’s all the same, same shelves, same candy, same signs.

It’s none of my business, but it was my hometown.

Maybe I’m exaggerating, but every building looks like

it needs a couple of coats of paint, a new roof, and

new windows. I start to wonder how it all got this way.

I hold back my tears when I see my grandparent’s home

with its faded, dented aluminum siding, dirty windows

and the back door swinging and slamming in the breeze.

It’s none of my business, but it was my hometown.

EAT AND RUN

Untwisting the wrapper he grabbed a stack
of bread, dealt slices like cards onto napkins
laid across the dash of his truck. We pulled packets
of ketchup, mustard, relish, mayonnaise from our
pockets, mounded them up by the windshield.

Each man reached into the pile, ripped them open
with their teeth, squeezed, spread, threw empties
in one motion saturating the bread with free
condiments he told us to load up on from the 7-11.

He slapped a thick slice of baloney onto the bread,
told us to eat up, we acted shy, because we hadn’t paid.
"I know you ain’t got no money, but we got lots of work
to get done, you boys’ll be worthless on empty stomachs.
I’m planning to get plenty of work out of the both of yous".

He splashed generic lemonade into courtesy cups,
gulped one down, asked us how's it tasting, and shared one
of his many Viet Nam sayings as he disengaged the brake-
“everyday’s a holiday and every lunch meal is a banquet”

He pushed the engine button, switched on the radio,
we still stuffed our faces full of white bread and ketchup
as he turned the big truck wheel and drove onto 295 North
and put it in the wind. I can still hear him singing along
with the refrain of an old Guess Who song as he shifted gears-

“on my way to better things- got myself some wings- distant roads are calling me”

PERMISSION

As a boy, he had to ask for
something to eat or drink.
Open the fridge or cabinets,
they acted like he was stealing.
And if he asked, it didn’t mean he
was getting it. Many times he’d hear-

Don’t drink that Pepsi, its mine.
Don’t take those cookies; those are for your sister.
Don’t touch the Slim Jims, they belong to Dad.
Don’t eat those pretzels; I bought ’em for your brother.

One day after school he ate two of his
stepfather’s Tastykake French apple pies,
the kind with white icing, little bitty raisins.
His mother humiliated him for being selfish
and asked, “Just who do you think you are?”
He was reminded of how much his father
loved his pies and what he’d do when he got
home from work and found them missing.

He gathered his change from his Snoopy bank
and took off running for the path, a shortcut
through the fields, out to the road, past the brook
and onto the avenue to the corner store.
After buying the pies, he ran back quickly to
replace what he’d taken without permission.