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= 15 =

About this Poem

I was about 15 when I wrote this, I vaguely remember, during a high school study hall when I should have been busy with homework.

New Haven is very multi-ethnic, and we lived at one time on Orange Street, which bordered on a neighborhood (State Street) that had a Polish church (Saint Stanislaus) where the sermons are actually in Polish.

I am totally sure that this study hall was right before lunch. I was really hungry, and daydreaming about being outside in the fresh air instead of cooped up in a dusty classroom.

Saturday Feast in Little Poland

I watch each Saturday in Little Poland
at Allen's Peerless Junk.

It's a ghoulish feast (before lunch)
of licking, lapping flames,
small bodies in the open pit.

They crouch upon a vast
glittering fallen Goliath with
his armor and his baubles -

(You can almost see the giant limbs outstretched,
   a hand upon a sodden chest,
   and think of that
   sausage jumping
   in the bubbling pan at home) -

Chewing little rubber, paper, oilcloth islands
and cardboard cliffs
with rippling, snapping jaws,
but seeming to devour little.

Black, smelly smoke whirls upward,
hot within a cold aseptic wind

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