Georgie’s Poem

My name’s Georgie, I’m 62,

born and raised in Brooklyn, New York.

I’m writing this in front of Mike’s donut shop,

watching the pigeons run to work.

Instead of turning Mama’s meatballs

into smash bergers, my therapist

suggested I write poetry.

Mama’s meatballs, mmm. Very good.

Garlic thin as the skin on my teath,

they melt in the pan with eese.

If I close my eyes, I can smell the room—

cigarette smoke, my father’s rotting toenail,

and red wine made from those same feet.

Pig.

I’d feed the birds, but who’s gonna feed me?

If I were a bird, I’d probly stay in Brooklyn.

I won’t stand here too long.

Mike’s a good guy,

but his donuts stink.

He makes the holes too big to save on dough.

And they lack the most important quality, charcter.

A lot of people say I’m a charcter.

What the hell am I writing down?

Poetry, right? This is poetry?

I gotta find a new therapist

before I start buying vegan salamy.

I learned a new word yesterday, perplexed.

Duplex, Triplex, Purplex.

I wonder how much a perplex goes for in New York these days.

I wonder how loud I’d have to fart

to make these pigeons take a hike.

I ran half a mile last night

and my knees almost exploded.

I wonder what exploded knees look like in an x-ray—

like shatered glass in a salad bowl.

I should’ve gone to doctor school.

Dr. Georgie. I’d give my patients Mama’s meatballs—

a dish from her can cure anything.

My therapist thinks I’m deppressed.

I told her,

“The only people dumb enough to be happy are morons.”

Happyness always gets ruined;

Sadness is already done for.

My therapist said I need more of a social life,

so last week I started boxing.

I bought the same boxing gloves Mike Tyson used

when he started out. Red leather with shoe strings

zig zaging across the arm opening.

This little adolecent prick Jerry gave me a black eye and blood streamed out of my nose onto my white sneaks.

I bought a skipping rope, but only skip at the park—

the wooden floors in my apartment are so weak

that I’d probably break through to the basment.

I see more people holding phones than hands these days.

Why cling on to something that doesn’t have a pulse?

There’s curly-headed moron in front of me talking a picture

of himself holding an ice cream cone.

The strawberry sorbet is driping all over his shoes.

I’ve reached an age where a sneeze can lead to a hospital visit.

I tried doing halloween last year.

I made 87 nutella sandwiches,

because that’s who I am, generous Georgie.

Not a single kid took a sandwich;

one father even gave me the middle finger.

I guess I’m not everyones cup of Georgie,

but that’s okay, next year I’m doing cannolis

stuffed with mamas ricotta.

The only time I wanted to leave New York

was when Angie died.

She hated Mike’s donuts,

so now, I try to buy one once a week,

look up to her and throw it in the garbage.

She made me laugh without even trying,

a natural comedian.

She would hold me when the day took its toll;

her hair smelled of lavender sheets spinning in laundromat dryers,

and she would tell me that I was the reason

Brooklyn had it’s charm.

On her last days, with tubes running through her

like a soda machine, one of the last things she said to me was,

“Georgie, when I leave, promise me you’ll clean your underwear

instead of wearing them inside out.”

We laughed, and when I got home,

I cried while a rerun of Jeopardy was playing

in the background.

I’m doing poetry like I’m shakes-peer Angie.

My cupboards are overflowed with underwear

and I jump rope at the park while air finds its morning warmth.

You won’t believe me, but kids don’t like nutella sandwiches.

What kind of holy donuts does God eat? Is he Italian?

I gotta run to the print shop

and ask one of those kids to print me

a hundred copies of this thing.

I’m gonna staple them to tree’s

and dump 20 of them in Mike’s mailbox.

Georgie might end up in the New Yorker.

I can see my breath now.

It’s getting cold and my knees are starting to act up.

It’s 6:47pm, the sun and I are racing to the print store.

The pigeons are making marching their way back home.

These pieces of paper in my cold, dry hands

hold words I’ve been wanting to share with you

everytime I come back home.

I stay on these Brooklyn streets as long as I can

for the fear of being cooped up in that house alone.

Out here, I see versions of myself

and versions of you, Angie.

How do poets end their poems?

Am I supposed to tie all the beautiful things I said

into one neat paragraph?

Georgie does things differently.

So, I’m ending this poem here.