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Click hereStorky got busted,
nabbed right in front
of his variety store,
by the cigars and news,
sundries in dingy cases,
on splintery shelves.
In the back the boys sit,
drink grappa,
play the numbers.
Maybe you get ahead,
gliding past factory mornings
that unfold on gray streets.
Maybe no more cardboard cups
from the Kwik Coffee truck,
no more nickel-plate grind
through years, Taryton
or Camel packs rolled tight
in white t-shirt shoulders,
or dropped in starched
bowling shirt pockets,
anticipating Friday league night.
Daddy says Storky's alright.
He just tries, like Gino
from Naples, with his no speaka English
gold tooth smile,
or the gypsies who wear gold chains
and flash their eyes at me.
JP brings me Italian nougat candy,
and Andy the retired strong man,
the carny, has two yellow teeth,
and can tear a Manhattan phone book
in half, lift a kitchen chair
with two fingers.
Daddy says they're ok,
just poor slobs, working stiffs.
Sometimes they buy 20-dollar
gold pieces from us. Andy
lifts me up with one big hand,
the gypsy lady says I'll travel,
I'll be lucky in love.
Gino gives me a free slice,
Neopolitan style, and a Coke.
This poem was mentioned in the Archival Review thread, in a picking through Lit's archive of over 35,000 poems.
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Wonderfully vivid imagery of the streets of NYC {I assume it's shaped by your background - NYC, right?}. I just wonder, you left this for the frigid hinterland of Maine? Why not someplace more temperate that has 4 seasons, like Georgia, where the winters can sometimes offer shirtsleeve weather.
Ange, I just felt like I flipped through pages of your scrapbook. Well done, lady ;)
a smooth, sharp poem. I liked the flow, the images, everything...A combination of style and form...I can't even put into words...Loved it!