(October 27, 1962)
 
Whatever I felt I feared
and that night it was in the air.
My father wanted bread for supper
and I was sent out in the thick of it,
not knowing to go fast or slow,
and which might make it worse—
my folks and their demands,
the big kids who hung all night in the Woods
ready to shake me down,
the Russian missiles aimed
right at my heart—and any moment now.
What did I ever do?— and what’s worse,
who’d be left to tell my tale
on this the night the world would end—
a boy sent on his own to Seligman’s
to buy a seeded rye—make sure it’s sliced thin?
 
I wouldn’t starve.
I had the bread,
the caraway stuck in my teeth,
the sourness to remind me of home,
where I’d never arrive.
Might as well have the taste
in my mouth of what little I’d been
while rolling through the heavens,
one moment tangling with dad,
the next wrestling with God— or, what’s worse,
maybe we’d all be blown to bits—
I hadn’t even said a word—
and I’d never get to feel anything at all.

The Greeners lived on the top of the four-floor walkup,
where we once lived when we were new,
a time before memory in those of us lucky to come after—
Oh, blessed memory of those too young to have to remember! 
Of climbing to the roof to see the fireworks 
in the far distance of the shore;
of car rides in the country while huddling close 
beneath blankets in the rumble-seat;
the hours lost in traffic at the Hawthorne Circle,
and, then, ungodly meals at the Red Apple Rest.
 
There’ll be none of that for the Greeners. 
Though rumor has it some were well-to-do 
or to be reckoned with, 
in a time before what happened,
that we cannot remember, or speak, or even bear to hear, 
as they sit now in their apartment, apart.
Won’t come out for decorating the tree in the lobby, 
won’t come out to see the kids’ parade on Hallowe’en, 
won’t answer the door when the Cantor
comes to offer seats for the holidays.
We only see them on the way to the grocer, 
and some days at the luncheonette for cigarettes, 
and once a week to the butcher for fresh chicken, 
always with those long faces, long sleeves
even in summer.  Why don’t they say hello, Ma,
when we say hello? 
Ma, why don’t they ever smile?