Me and Bob, Joe and Marie

We sit like schlubs in the bleacher seats.

Joe.
I should have married Joe.
Mother knew best.
We’d be in box seats; even better
those luxury boxes, with the giant TVs
appys and cocktails, elbows rubbed
with the ball players.

Instead I’m with Bob in the bleachers.

It’s loud and it smells; sun baking my head
beer spilled all over, by the fat drunk that leans on me.
Chick that he’s with, stinking like beans
and green onions.

Mother was right.
I’m hearing her voice now.
“You could love a rich, same as a poor man.”

But I missed the boat.
I married Bob. Joe married Marie.

Mom preferred Joe, but I sit here with Bob -
like two schlubs in the bleacher seats,
while Marie lives my best life.



Tampons and Tanqueray 

“Lay down with dogs, you’ll wake up
with puppies.”

“That slut in 4C, knocked up, having
twins.”

“Ya gotta get in there, scrub like you mean
it, or your house will stay filthy”

Bernice of the lacquered up beehive, 
cracking her gum while opinning. And the

gals on the bench, while the men went to
work, living paycheck to paycheck, with the
dream to move up from the projects to suburbs.

South side of Queens, the ladies speak trash 
talk, tampons and Tanqueray, stuffed bras and
stuffed cabbage

making me wish, that I’d snuck out to Woodstock.