Killer
after Montale
When he saw me coming
from stickball
swinging a broom handle,
he’d call Killer
from his chair on the stoop.
Someone’s grandfather,
a steamfitter who worked
weekends at Yankee Stadium
wiping box seats with a mitt.
Killer, he’d scrawl in the air,
calling attention to my skinny frame,
a stick carrying a stick.
When I go to hell,
I know he’ll yell Killer
from his bench among the coals,
and I’ll wave
my kindling from the flames.
