ooooooh a poetry thread. haven't done any of it in years, but here's some old shit.
wops
Back in high school
Sammy denied being Jewish
every time he was
accused.
"I'm adopted," he'd say.
"My last name isn't really mine
and besides, my adoptive mother
is a gentile."
His father was a Weinberg,
a lawyer living in Florida
that he hadn't seen since grade school.
"I'm full-blooded Italian,
that's what my real parents were."
But that nose;
We couldn't get past that nose. It was
really something, impressive, I guess
you could say.
We called him Toucan Sam
and made a habit of pinching the tip of his nose
whenever we passed him in the hallway, jeering,
"Follow that nose, Sam, to wherever that
fruit flavor goes."
I suppose there was some validity
to his claims of Italian blood.
The kid was ripped with a barrel chest
and skinny legs,
jet black, straight hair and a comb with grease in his back pocket.
He loved to wear cologne,
so much so
that you could smell him coming down the hallway
a hundred yards away.
But that nose;
We couldn't get past that nose…
or his denials.
He was a friend, could play ball
better than most of us,
could run anyone down
as if he was John Henry's hammer,
tossing our pubescent bodies around like
pimple faced rag dolls.
He liked to call me a bean eater
and I'd tell him I was Spanish.
"That's supposed to be better?" he'd ask,
obviously confused.
"Well," I'd say, "Who'd rather be a wop
than a Jew?"
He'd storm off,
angry and confused and shaking his head,
almost as if he'd rather be
banging it against a wall.
Sam was not
a very bright kid.
And I suppose that,
if anything,
gave truth
to his claims.
But that nose;
it was just
too much
for any kid
to ignore.
Sorry Sammy.
We were just kids,
and besides,
you were the only one of us
getting any ass
at the time
anyway.
What did you expect?
