March 2020
Alan Walowitz
ajwal328@gmail.com
Author's Note   My birthday's this month and I'll be 71 if I make it. Never thought I'd be quite that old. (Either Mickey Mantle or Mae West said, "If I knew I was gonna live this long, I would've taken better care of myself." No matter. Neither is alive to fight it out, but I'd put my money on Mae.) My father died when he was 70, so if I'm still around for my 71st on March 28th, I will have outlived him. Either way, thanks for reading the poem, which first appeared in Sheila-Na-Gig Online, and later in my book, The Story of the Milkman and Other Poems, published by Truth Serum Press in 2019.

My Father Stops at Corners
           Jeremiah Walowitz (1916-1987)

The year my father turned 68
he began to cross at corners,
wait for the light, even
for the sign that flashed Don’t Walk
which he used to ignore and joke,
What if I can’t read?
Once they got him for jaywalking
which he did plenty
on Broadway and 28th
where the dress racks whirled
as the cars whizzed too close
and rattled the pint in his pocket
he kept to keep him steady—
but what would he care,
long as he got there quick
and had a story to tell.
He knew he wasn’t due to die
till 68, same as his pop,
who some said he looked like,
was built like, barrel-bellied and ruddy
and though he didn’t want to hurry it along
saw no need to take chances,
though his heart hurt
and he could hardly breathe
for the terror of living
with his father’s death—
which now he owned—
hanging low over his head
like the black fedora
pulled tight over his eyes.

In fact, he made it till 70,
frankly, a little disappointed
at the extra time he had to put in.
And that’s what I’m looking at now.
So, please. Don’t tell me I look like him,
though I loved that guy
and didn’t want to see him
stop at corners—
and when the time came round
I didn’t want to see him have to go.
Walowitz and son
Jerry Walowitz (and son) c 1952. I loved that guy.
©2020 Alan Walowitz
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