The first thing my boss ordered at Benjie’s Delicatessen
was Dr. Brown’s Cel-Ray soda.  He shut his eyes as he
took the first sip.  A broad smile formed on his face.
He let out an audible AWWWW.
This man covets a Porsche, lives in a posh Redondo Beach condo,
Yet this is the happiest I have seen him, all over a soda.  
“They have little restaurants like this
In Queens,” he adds.  He escaped the brutal harshness
of his youth to play football for Woody Hayes in Ohio,
converted from Judaism to Presbyterianism
when he joined Price Waterhouse
yet still needs to connect with things in Queens.
And he connects to Queens through Jewish memories.
He picks a kosher dill in salt brine,
puts it on the plate with his pastrami on rye.
“These are real pickles,” he says between crunches, “salt brine, no vinegar.”
So many of us try to run away from ourselves.
The only path to happiness is through ourselves.
                        

My life didn’t start until 1987,
When I met Amy and found myself.
I should remember that whenever
Life spits bitter seeds my way.
Otherwise, a washed-up never-has-been
Could never have found his way home,
Much less give up the bottle, the pills, and the anger.
Anger is the hardest to part with.
I wake up in a bolt at 2:30 a.m.
To a pillow covered with cold sweat, 
Leaving a bed with my lover holding my hand, 
Laying alone on the living room sofa
awake until morning’s first gray light
Seeps through the slats in the blinds.
When I return to the bedroom
Amy strokes my arms, chest, and forehead,
Sweet-talks me back to sleep.
I wake up to a new day around 8 a.m.
Then take our son to summer school.
This is not a confession.
It is a love poem.