On the sidewalk outside
my father’s pizzeria,
kids hang,
voices so inarticulate
their clothes and looks
must speak for them.
Some are runaways.
Others dropouts
until tiredness or hunger
drives them home.
Each is a child like me
except I’m making boxes
and stacking them
and they’re all looking to
get themselves a gun.
Someday I’ll be old enough
to drive the delivery truck
and they’ll have the inside dope
on who’s selling that pistol
with its registration number shaved.
I’ll end up working long hours
with the old man.
They’ll probably shoot some guy,
get twenty years to life.
There’s a plate glass window
between us.
It’s been busted on four separate occasions.
You can see yourself in it
and you can see right through it.
That shouldn’t come
as any surprise.
