Neighbors say the dead spot
at the end of my block
used to hold a gas station,
tanks still in the ground
full of sand. Today it hosts
a caucus of crows.
There’s an old folks’ place
across the street, a Blind Onion
next door—mediocre pizza.
At 20 I mapped the city
by slice shops: Pizzicato,
Rocco’s, Rovente, Hot Lips.
Even Schmizza, but rarely—
their savor was the corporate
variety. Then I was 40.
It happened fast, faster
than anything else ever has.
Decades like dervishes.
Now I cruise the grocery
with my little cart, looking
for organic blueberries
and sparkling water, shadowed
by my sneering younger self;
she says, It’s Friday! Get ready!
Don’t you have SOMEwhere to be?!
This is just SAD! She’s wearing
the black Frankenstein boots
in which she crushed a glass
on the grass-green carpet
of her childhood bedroom
just to see how it felt.