Poetry By Bob Friedland:  ul017@victoria.tc.ca


                 THE LAST KNISH-MAN


          There are no more knish-men

          on Pitkin Avenue.



          No more flat knishes on waxed paper

          sprinkled with too much coarse salt

          so the crystals that did not adhere

          slid off the smooth paper

          on to the top of the sheet metal wagon,

          or on to the wide sidewalks,

          or off into the wind.

          No more Litvaks.

          No more Galitzianers.



          Just black men in surplus greatcoats

          burning beef fat in up-ended oildrums by the slaughterhouse.

          Rubbing their hands, shaking and blowing on their knuckles,

          passing a bottle, swallowing deeply to stay warm.



          There are no more old tailors

          not even Mr. Koenig, with numbers

          tattooed around their wrists.



          No more appetizing-store owners slicing lox,

          or offering a taste of wooden-boxed cream cheese

          to mothers' boys on the tip of a sharp knife.

          No more push-carts,

          No more delicatessens with spicy brown mustard

          rolled up in small cones of heavy brown waxed paper.



          Even Harry Cabot, who drove to Spring Valley with my father,

          to buy milk, during the strike.

          Even Harry Cabot is dead.





                              BROOKLYN 14, NEW YORK



          1956, and

          Father Knickerbocker in peeling paint,

          Dutch colonial dress, cane

          and a beer,

          peers down from the wall of Dominic's Grocery

          over rectangular reading glasses.



          A gallon  mayonnaise jar

          filled with clear liquid,

          and a note taped, hand-written,

          on sandwich wrapping paper, says,

               "Tears of Dodger Fans.

               Wait 'til next year."



          Across 18th Avenue

          the new two-tone Pontiacs sit idle in the showroom,

          the live poultry market is closing,

          the men with the horse-drawn wagons,

          the one who sells javel water,

          the other who sharpens dull knives and collects rags,

          are finishing their rounds.



          The breeze off of Gravesend Bay

          is smooth and salty.

          The West End rumbles overhead on the El,

          where it turns down toward

          New Utrecht.



          In Whitey's, the boys drink soda,

          smoke,

          and re-live the perfect game.





                                   KINGS HIGHWAY



          The wind roars up Ocean Parkway

          and slices the Sunday morning volunteers

          on the spot where Washington marched off

          to meet Burgoyne in Long Island.

          There's a mural in the high-ceilinged bank.


          Now the icy wind freezes the windows thick

          with the heavy moist condensate of the bagel bakery

          on East Fifth Street.


          Inside, platoons of doughy circles are pulled

          from hot water, spread quickly on long narrow boards

          and advanced into the ovens.

          It is warm steamy and loud

          with shouted commands and orders.

               "A dozen assorted, no salt."

               "Six and six."

          Under their arms, the volunteers shoulder

          the Times, the Mirror, or the Daily News.



          The bagels that are almost too hot to hold,

          will be frozen by the time they are home.

          Its better to eat at least one right away,

          plain,

          and let the warm doughy softness dissolve.
--