for Bogats and KniznerLoping our way down potholed streetsof this company town, huckingall the news we can wrap in red gumbands,a rash of dinged-up storm doors flaringas our canvas sacks grow empty.Ink-stained and sweaty,we meet at the meat market’s stoop,our 10¢ Fudgsicles dribbling while we grumbleover the laid-off paying in change,their pennies making our Mellon Bankmoneybags sag and jingle.As remedy, one of us palms a handful, eyeingthe striped steel awnings of this avenue’s gray-hairs,sounds of Gunsmoke blazing across their TVsjust before our zinc lands like a thunderclap,scaring the sparrows and jazzing uswith the thrill of a getaway, our lank bodiesscattering through jagger-bushed backyards,the mutts we zig past, chainedand yowling at our trespass.Though we hadn’t counted our on troublefalling deaf on the ears of those pensioners,hard of hearing from a lifetime of mill work,it’s too bad we never thoughtof doubling back in the thinning light,if only to catch a glimpse of them,sweeping their pine-needled walkwaysbefore crouching on a cranky knee,gathering fallen tenderthat brings their shallow pocketsto rattle with our slag.
Fred Shaw (Fri,) studied this question.