End with Past Tense

Last time I saw Goldman, we eating

sammin’ sammiches on Venice

Boulevard, as we do regular

he was talking about how hot it was

that I was a dock worker

when I described what I do, building walls

out of cardboard boxes in semi-trailers. Said he used to

work at the dock in his youth in NYC.

“But not what you do,” he said, “I know what you do.

                           You couldn’t fit an envelope in there,

                                        they would say of those walls,

                                                       when men built them,

men who knew what they were doing,” he said and I said,

                                                                   “Yes. That’s me.”

Recently, on top of a ladder jamming a particularly difficult

squishy into a tight spot over my head, I thought of one night

on the phone listening to you list again all of the reasons

                           you could not be with me long-haul.

You cuss like a dock worker.

Not so much anymore, now that I work ship dock

and eat sammin’ sammiches on Venice

or piled high with shrimp ones

on Abbot Kinney with mango

                                              relish

and am so much happier

since I don’t have to struggle

with those supposedly more fitting similars   you preferred.

Originally published by Storm Cellar.

Photo credit: Ranney Campbell, 2024.