Willimantic, CT 1971
 
The house was worn, but clean—
much cleaner than me, the sneer 
on the Agent’s face made clear.
An old Victorian, stately dame from before 
anyone figured she’d be worth making over—
but a firetrap still.  Fire-escape, 
a shaky gravity-ladder leading nowhere
and hardly subject to gravity’s law.
Better be ready to jump.
We were mostly young and supple then.
 
That’s how it was on Spring St. Willimantic, 
where I hid out during the war 
with hope of getting lost and keeping alive.
Upstairs, Fidelito measured loneliness in nickels and dimes
and did his version of La gente va murmurando 
learned from a Connie Francis record.
While the sad, out-of-tune murmur drifted
to me in my dark and airless room.
 
A floor below, the vet, 
returned from his year at war
joyful about his transfer to Swing  
at the thread mill—the Hunting Shift—
whispers to his girl about how much deer
he’ll be able to squeeze in the freezer we all shared.
Who gives a shit, asshole? 
It’ll be a cold winter here, she hollers,
as she slams the side door shut 
and leaves, again—maybe this time for good.
 
Which is when the landlord, Old Man Kunkel,
comes clunking up the stairs.
Third time this week he’s been by,
where I’m hunkered in the corner of my room.
Wal-witz, you sonofabitch.You owe fifteen bucks!
He rattles the door as if he wants me—
but it was the schnapps talking—
and, how he’ll rip the goddamn phone out, 
these slugs jammed in again for nickels and dimes.
How’m I gonna go home tonight, he asks the air,
with nothing to show from all you slugs?
                        

(August 21, 2017)
 
Late as always, and always a little wary of the dark,
I chased the eclipse down the Thruway
to the rest-stop closest to the Catskills,
my people consider sacred ground.  
There, where the clouds obscured everything,
I made my way to the Food Court to watch on TV
to make sure it really happened as foretold,
this travel down what they call the path of totality,
a term I had never heard, though now I’d swear
I used to travel there when I was young.
Then, there seemed to be no other way 
than to embrace what was sullen and obscured—
like the sun today, only so much duller at the edge
and in no particular hurry to find a way out.