Father and I

awkwardly threw a football

back and forth--

our forced theatrics

two Jews

in some tortured Rockwellian pantomime

that neither

had any belief in.

 

But

it was in

Benson's Deli

on Saturday afternoons

the pop

and the long awaited fizz

of the Doctor Brown's--

the delicious hint of vanilla cream

at the cusp of my nostrils.

 

Dad's loving adornement of his hotdog

a true work of abstract art

a colorful phallus

of juice and savory meat.

And my brother and me

breaking through the brittle yellow skin

of a meat knish

as if we were

prospecting gold diggers.

 

And for me

those afternoons

that warm, nostalgic

ancient hue

is all that

rings true .

*from "Wrestling With My Father." ( yellow Pepper Press-2005)