My Friend, circa 1982

Friend’s 50^th Birthday, 1982

THEY say we’re growing old, my friend

And life has passed its prime.

But what do THEY know of the cold,

And of the flow of time?

The breadlines never touched us but we were depression babies.

Turned off the lights when we left a room.

Bought “plain” milk to save two cents

Skimmed the cream off with a spoon.

And then the war, distant yet exciting.

They sent us home from school one day,

Air raid false alarm.

We heard of Anzio and Iwo, and Bremmenhofen on the kitchen Philco,

Watched Quadacanal Diary at the Tuxedo,

Acted out sadistic fantasies.

Ringelevio, caught, caught, caught.

Freeze!  You moved.  Seven and a half.

Remember Pearl harbor. Sneak attack.

Cans up.

One, two, three, shoot.

Out goes Y-O-U.

Songs of our childhood.

Parkway, yard, and Oval, our playgrounds.

We played handball and threw “Spaldines” at wooden broomsticks,

Played “chicken” on the roof and rode the elevators.

Listened to Hop Harrigan, the All American Boy

And Captain Midnight.

Carried  schoolbooks in leather straps.

Briefcases were for girls.

Rode the “4” bus and the “D” train to school.

Pseudo-scholars the two of us.

Walked the streets at night

Looking for girls.

Why were we so poor at that?

Snuck Lucky Strikes and Chesterfields.

Rubbed fingers with green leaves to mask the smell

Once we rode to Cooney Island on New Year’s Eve.

There were other friends.

One owned the football and the only TV in the Bronx.

We knew he’d be a brain surgeon or physicist,

Or whatever he wanted to be,

So we abused him for it.

We went to college separately and moved apart.

Soon the Bronx was behind us.

Most days slid by unnoticed.

Those are the ones THEY count.

But some remain as benchmarks on our personal calendars…

By that reckoning we’re only toddlers now.

Now you have palaces to run.

Your children go to summer camp.

I write endless tomes with budgets

“For your consideration…”

To moneyed givers in tall buildings,

And rake October leaves

But here we are again. My friend,

And fifty doesn’t seem so very long.

THEY say we’re growing old, my friend

And life has passed its prime.

But what do THEY know of the cold,

And of the flow of time?

The breadlines never touched us but we were depression babies.

Turned off the lights when we left a room.

Bought “plain” milk to save two cents

Skimmed the cream off with a spoon.

And then the war, distant yet exciting.

They sent us home from school one day,

Air raid false alarm.

We heard of Anzio and Iwo, and Bremmenhofen on the kitchen Philco,

Watched Quadacanal Diary at the Tuxedo,

Acted out sadistic fantasies.

Ringelevio, caught, caught, caught.

Freeze!  You moved.  Seven and a half.

Remember Pearl harbor. Sneak attack.

Cans up.

One, two, three, shoot.

Out goes Y-O-U.

Songs of our childhood.

Parkway, yard, and Oval, our playgrounds.

We played handball and threw “Spaldines” at wooden broomsticks,

Played “chicken” on the roof and rode the elevators.

Listened to Hop Harrigan, the All American Boy

And Captain Midnight.

Carried  schoolbooks in leather straps.

Briefcases were for girls.

Rode the “4” bus and the “D” train to school.

Pseudo-scholars the two of us.

Walked the streets at night

Looking for girls.

Why were we so poor at that?

Snuck Lucky Strikes and Chesterfields.

Rubbed fingers with green leaves to mask the smell

Once we rode to Cooney Island on New Year’s Eve.

There were other friends.

One owned the football and the only TV in the Bronx.

We knew he’d be a brain surgeon or physicist,

Or whatever he wanted to be,

So we abused him for it.

We went to college separately and moved apart.

Soon the Bronx was behind us.

Most days slid by unnoticed.

Those are the ones THEY count.

But some remain as benchmarks on our personal calendars…

By that reckoning we’re only toddlers now.

Now you have palaces to run.

Your children go to summer camp.

I write endless tomes with budgets

“For your consideration…”

To moneyed givers in tall buildings,

And rake October leaves

But here we are again. My friend,

And fifty doesn’t seem so very long.

THEY say we’re growing old, my friend

And life has passed its prime.

But what do THEY know of the cold,

And of the flow of time.

Friend’s 50^th Birthday, 1982

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