Reunion


That Thanksgiving, my brothers and I got together
to discuss the possibility of half-brothers and sisters.
Our mother, we decided, never had time for an affair

unless, of course, she invited in some of the people
who came to the door while we were in school:
Murray The Eggman, Eddie the Mailman (who 

carried par avion envelopes from Russia and 
Israel); Murray the Seltzerman, another Murray, 
with jars of Fox’s U-Bet and bottles of black 

cherry syrup—did he carry my mother on one 
shoulder the way he balanced his wooden crate 
of Good Health Seltzer bottles on the other, 

to make her squeal with Yiddish delight? Or maybe 
it was the orthodox rebs, their hands always out 
in search of donations for yeshivas and orphanages 

in Jerusalem. My father, on the other hand, had 
what we now call windows of opportunity. 
Weekdays, he remained in Brooklyn while we left 

the city for bungalow colonies in the summer, 
in the early sixties. His overtime hours at the 
post office brought him home at three and four 

in the morning. The quiet guys are the ones 
obsessed with sex, the addicts. We raised a toast 
to our half-sisters and half-brothers everywhere: 

have a good life and a very merry holiday 
season. To you and yours, ours.  





Outpost


There were times
I’d go up to the roof
to check out the neighborhood’s,
indigenous population, 
native costumes, native breasts,
watch people exit the el
after a day of work,
goofing off, working hard, 
hardly working.
Some had a spring to their step,
others, a little worse for wear. 
The sun, my favorite H-bomb, 
sat behind large purple clouds
like a soft-boiled egg.
It all hung together,
like fish caught in nets
on Portugal’s coast, 
an early evening ballet, 
the train’s rumble,
a car engine’s moan.
The bakery aroma curls up
through backyards and alleys
to the tarry outpost 
where I jot down impressions
in the captain’s log: 
behold, the less than evil urban empire,  
the Kingdom of Brooklyn,
ten thousand pedal boats
launched annually 
in Prospect Park.
Barely tall enough for the pedals,
they stuck me with an older brother.
The good life carried a newspaper home
rolled up under its arm. 





Chichen-Itza


The tour guide says Spanish explorers 
stole limestone from Mayan temples
for their churches, history built 
on the backs of others.
Block by block, archaeologists 
piece together their story, 
push it up the pre-Colombian wall, 
try to put Humpty Dumpty 
back together again.
Couldn’t they build anything 
other than ruins?

I’m an easier civilization to follow.
The recent past is strewn 
across our kitchen table, car 
maintenance bills, a furnace 
replacement agreement, 
monthly credit card statements. 
The driveway is shot. The green 
siding’s got to go. Front stair 
bricks are chipped. Pay stubs 
on the table tell what I’ve 
done with my life.