written By
While hurrying home from work to read my favorite
poet’s last book, put together by his wife after the
cancer he so beautifully captured ensured his words
would never touch anyone again, I see a man selling
shoes in the parking lot of a gritty, inner-city strip
mall and wonder if his goods for sale are like the
taco vendors’—so delicious the city overlooks
the need for a permit due to his contribution to a
hungry community. I question how much money
he can possibly make since I’m sure most motorists
won’t stop because stolen Jordans don’t whet the
appetite like grilled carne asada. I thought I’d have
a different teaching job by now, but I still chide
and lecture teens and the numerous interviews
I’ve been a part of haven’t proven lucrative enough
to sell to a panel of college professors who scrutinize
my words and wear comfortable Rockports. I hope
Tony made it to Heaven and before he stood in
front of God, surrendered his soul and unflattering
similes, and God accepted him and didn’t pass him
over for another candidate simply due to perceived
lack of experience. When my wife does the laundry
and tells me I keep leaving candy wrappers in my
pants pockets, I don’t tell her that maybe they’re
in there purposely because I want her to always
remember me because she was able to unwrap
the man that I am, and that’s the best poetry
I can ever leave behind for her.
