Into Exile

I walk the old streets and realize
they tore down the Endicott Theater
to put up a savings bank
in the same space where Poppa and I
saw “Blood and Sand”.

And Fat Tony’s Luncheonette
where we’d stroll for a Mello Roll
or a Charlotte Russe after;
and Poppa is long gone
as well as my nine year old self
never to be seen again.

Which is why I admire those poets
who, whilst in exile
revealed the transience of life
so much better than I,
recalling in deep melancholy
what was, but is no longer seen.

Cranes flying o’re the Forbidden City
the gates of Kiev, Krakow or Jerusalem
a street in Homs or onion domes
they would never see again
walking on a warm Summer’s evening.

.

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