Meatballs make the man, says Artemio
with the arch of his back
while he is crouched over
bus tubs of raw
pork, ground
and parmesan, and milk
and oregano and veal and things, knees on the concrete
and tile
second time this week, producing same results, January
cold floor, icy mornings, steaming sip, numb after noon, delayed for dinner, abbreviated in rest
some mornings we toast over prosecco to wake up
our clean slates
he is mixing with his arms and gloves, Mets cap on backwards, and he is the proudest man
to ever live in a ghost town.
