Walking the 2 miles home

from the market on a drab,

cloudy, grey day of November,

I shlump along overwhelmed

with sadness, remembering

it’s almost 80 years after,

The night of broken glass.

A young couple holding hands

bounces along towards me

with blinding bright smiles

that could have illuminated

the Ebbets’ Field of my youth

on a starless summer night.

They triggered a memory

of my adolescent folklore:

When I was their age,

we knew if someone had sex

by the way they walked.

The lilt in their gait

gave them away.

They reminded me to lighten up

and smile as I struggled to carry

pounds of organic Fiji apples,

red potatoes and 2 pineapples

that were on sale.

Once again, my wife calls

to remind me to sit down

and rest in order to avoid

another heart attack.