It’s Spring Break and I am reading pages and pages of poetry. Strangely enough though, it’s rewarding. I want you to think of underage drinking in Florida as boys and girls tan, listen to horrible techno music and ultimately and temporarily fall in love and subsequently contract STDs while you read these poems. The poems have nothing whatsoever to do with Spring Break but I like controlling your thoughts. Pick up the remote, throw it out the window.
Yours Gloomy,
Luis Rivas
Head Poetry Editor
—
ON CAMBRIDGE STREET
By Barry Z. Niditch
That ex-landlord
was wiping
his moist white mustache
in a low pitched voice
smelling of beer
from his stolen school van
hands out
laced brownies
between his dirty palms
when we were ten,
always threatening
the poor neighbors
with “Do not go there”
once rumored to be
a religion editor,
crime reporter,
comic strip writer
in a defunct
yellow tabloid,
an extra in x rated
stag films,
a spy for the enemy
whoever it was
at the time,
once saying,
“Only men could appreciate
his movies,
Male War Bride
or Moby Dick,”
often sitting shoeless
exposing his Navy wounds
and Popeye sailor tattoos,
showing off
those knife collections,
the alley’s feral cat
his newspaper
and toe clippings
he saved
for anyone coming by.
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