-to each on his own-

that's me

standing on the corner

across the street from the house at 1017

leaning against the chain-

linked fence of the park

looking around, exhaling the forbidden

cigarette smoke from my nostrils

waiting for somebody to show up.

It’s early evening

the approach to suppertime

when we’re usually expected

to be inside.

my parents left in mid-morning

traveling to Narragansett, Rhode Island

and the wedding of a niece.

my mother left "supper on the stove";

macaroni and cheese.

and not the packaged shit.

home-cooked elbow macaroni,

strained, multi-layered with cheeses,

baked in the oven

forming an amber crust.

It stays warm on the stove.

my teenage sister has escaped
to the Linden Street tenement

of the fascinating Edwina Mello

and my younger brother, seizing the moment

is rummaging through

the drawers of her bedroom dresser.

he doesn't know what it is he's looking for

and he won’t understand anything he finds.

that's me across the street

standing on the corner looking around,
leaning against the chain-linked fence at the right field line,

finger-flicking the smoldering butt, forming a slow-
burning arc to street-side as adroitly as the best of the seasoned smokers,

waiting for somebody to show up.

                                                     Quequechan, '57?