Murder on Maxwell Street

They shot my grandfather on Maxwell Street.

Bullets zinged the statue pinned inside his vest

and pierced his heart.

He staggered to the call box, told the station,

“Send the wagon; I’ve been shot,”

then slumped to Maxwell Street.

Peddlers brought their carts around:

watches, ribbons, stolen radios,

Prohibition whiskey for a dying Irish cop.

The wagon carried him to County.

He died in a pauper’s bed.

Deserter of the British Army, a warrant on his

head, he jumped an India Colony ship,

slipped into steerage of an immigrant boat,

and donned a pseudonym for his New World

kin.

         Grandma got a pension,

         his kids their picture in the Trib.