John Repp

Ode to Newspapers Big as Pizza Boxes

 

Manhattan/Leesburg/Antigo/Landis Township

 

You can’t any longer whether by whim or design

    buy The Village Voice on the way to or from

Fairway or Manny’s or the Red Apple whose aisles

 

    accommodate but one of the tiny carts though pushy

babushkas keep doubting it. A friend’s father each night

    read the New York Times’ every squib. He’d already died,

 

so I couldn’t have the conversation the friend swore

    I’d have loved & that’s forty years ago already.

Like all of us then, Mr. Walker lived near enough

 

    the Palace Depression to see moonlight glint

off the shattered blue glass in the walls. I still don’t know

    whether that really was Roy Wilson chatting up

 

a woman in a yellow slicker outside a Korean market

    as damp winter light wavered in the wind up Broadway.

Why do Koreans run so many markets there? A question

 

    for Spike Lee’s orbiting lens to ponder. In Leesburg,

The Times came rolled in the mailbox two days late.

    At our house, the Antigo Daily Journal spoke of lumber

 

& snow. Oh, look: Hilda married Albert & Eastern Star

    enjoyed its biggest installation yet. Lest you wonder,

I’d love to hear my mother butcher one more polka

 

    on the Lowrey under the cuckoo clock. From the best

bench in Riverside Park, a block downhill from Grant’s Tomb,

    you can’t see the Hudson when the trees leaf out,

 

but you can smell the big water whose barges & tugs

    the city’s monumental hush muffles enough I can sit

enormously alone & sip coffee hot & silken. In winter,

 

    wide, glittery water through confused trunks & branches,

not to mention the Palisades. From the tin-can & shattered

    concrete threshold of The Palace Depression, you can’t see

 

the harbor where the Greenwich Tea Party lit the fuse

    of revolution, but you can smell it now & then

when the tide’s low, even in November, no matter

 

what you want or where you think you belong.

Our Soup

 

 Was the soup you made the Monastery Lentil I found

         in Diet for a Small Planet & cooked hundreds of times

till the browned paperback fell behind the prefab hutch

 

         I threw together in the cellophane-wrapped world

where my son’s colic sealed me? No matter how simple,

         I can’t remember recipes. I don’t have to remember

 

letters because I have & always will have yours though “always”

         staggers beneath a crumbling load of mortal irony.

Rereading after decades, I see you “fixed” food. I felt glad Doug

 

         scored the lighting gig, Shelly found a home at Evergreen,

Ted hitched up from Portland & the whole house switched

         to brown sugar. Pages crisped brown, cards you hoped

 

didn’t annoy me (cartoon woman in windowpane glasses,

         peasant skirt & disco scarves), the feathers & tiny shells

down to grainy wisps—what to make, what to fix of all this?

 

         The words, dear, the words you lavished on me, the interior

murk through which I read & read them! Olympia is astounding.

         The miserable month I spent there in yet another muffled

 

year did feature surf & basalt, or was that somewhere else?

         All the new friends loved the soup. You still loved me

& always would. I’m sorry you never crewed on that freighter.

 

         When Tom said “lentils,” he not only didn’t swallow the “t,”

the tip of his tongue drummed it. For two weeks, he, Robert & I

         lived on lentils, apples & Our Bread. Tom came to hate

 

“Tom,” so he became “Thomas.” Esther & Easter had disappeared.

         Juanita, too. All I’d have to say is “Coal Hill” & you’d know

what I mean, or so a poem like this—chalky shard off the house-high

 

         drift of the oyster shells I shovel on ghosts—has to hope.

Assateague-hot the first week, but the morning the weather broke,

         Grant pulled up, Tom & Robert off driving their tofu route,

 

me trimming the yarrow I’d picked in the birch grove. We hiked up

         the Falling Waters Trail to the summit, ate oranges shirtless,

swore we could see all the way to Maine, trotted down to meet Lexi

 

         at Oliver’s for chili. Our Oliver’s. Our fight over Sambo’s.

Our blue linoleum, ancient Frigidaire, huge toilet-tank bolted

         to the ceiling. I love the this & that of letters, not gone

 

till I am & maybe not even then.

John Repp grew up along the Blackwater Branch of the Maurice River in southern New Jersey and has lived for many years in Erie, Pennsylvania. His most recent collections of poetry are the chapbooks Madeleine Wolfe—A Sequence (Seven Kitchens Press) and Cold-Running Current (Alice Greene & Co.), both published in 2019.

 

 

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