Brooklyn 1957

Wind and snow dance on concrete streets,
Slicing through city canyons of pre-war brick,
Tattooed with casement windows and iron laced fire escapes
This day, like all the others, shortened by winter’s darkness

My father’s hardware store smells like the kerosene
He keeps in the back room
I cut kitchen shades to measure with confidence born of youth,
And likewise keys proportioned to locks

I am too young to carry 12 foot rolls of linoleum
The way father does, on his back, up six flights of stairs
But I help out each Saturday in the weeks before Christmas,
Selling white china cups and bright red Christmas tree stands

The smell of kerosene, and the taste of piping hot bagels
Still brings me back to those days
Munching hot bagels on the ride home,
In the days before the anger.

DKL 9/30/14