He smashed rats that nibbled
rotting eggs
Near the oozing Hudson,
while tradesmen
Tossed the slimy crates into waiting trucks
His father wore zoot suits,
gambled Fridays
The market slid nearer the Hudson sludge
His mother buried the family bonds in the grit of stockyards
He dreamed of making speeches to
the frenzied tradesmen
ate the cat’s remains
In a warping shell, he wobbled down the family’s collapse
Until the suits were gone and Father
dropped on the cool subway
While the eggs decayed, and mother
wailed Hungarian solaces
So, he became a farmer, and the tradesmen
Heard only excerpts from his complete speeches.