On the Demise of Twinkies and Wonder Bread
Your enjoyment of the world is never right, till every morning you awake in Heaven: see yourself in your Father’s palace
How did I get here?
How fat we are here.
When first I sat, thin, at a sixties table
O then did I see my queenly mom
Whose eternity instated my world,
In which I walked in Keds
And every kid I saw
I wanted to know.
The lawns in their magnificence,
The Ohio air of pewter;
How inhuman, workaday, violent, unfair!
Our neighbors had no sense,
And all the schoolteachers, so dull,
Did seem to reckon
On quashing one’s self-esteem!
Why did they name me Don?
A native of space age paranoia
and innocence of news; fluoride
helped my bones and teeth grow,
yet otherwise I had little to show
for all the affluence that greenly flowed
along our troubled Anderson Rd.
A man with black Burberry coat and hat
kept a roof overhead: that was that.
Harsh jagged treetops, and their leaves concealed
our father’s oppressions, my tears
in the fries, my brothers’ unglued tempers;
all hid till the Yiddish lady
called me “kid” and revealed how foreign
angels are, in this country’s eyes.
So the buckeyes grew wide and plump,
my dreams grew fadey.
The elementary school is torn down now,
bulldozed into its elements.
The boys and girls there now grown or dead,
alone or remarried, or whatever.
Bullied and sullied then, I’m happy to be
in another state nowadays.
I call it the Tang® Dynasty, when mom
nourished us on the likes
of Bacos, Lipton onion soup mix,
with Cool Whip from the tub for desert.
Ugh. Riding our Huffy bikes
to Burger Chef was insufficient exercise,
but we did read books.
The goyim abused us mightily. Schnooks!
The shadows in the water were mine,
and did not divide the splendor
of my eyes. I consumed books with avarice.
Amazement was my bliss
and condiment. Each page was a Virgil to me, or
at least a flat rung to Paradise.
Oh did their lovely dust jackets shine!
“Nerd, egghead, four-eyes...”
Though I couldn’t even tie my own shoes,
I thrived, found myself on storied shores.
Over time, I became one of those bookish bores.
Don Share's most recent books are Wishbone (Black Sparrow), a new edition of his translations of Miguel Hernandez (New York Review Books), and a translation of Dario Jaramillo Agudelo's Field Guide (Marick Press).
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