day THREE HUNDRED and EIGHTY

Bernie’s Garage

Pellegrino and I watch the snow
melt on the roof of Bernie’s Garage
from the window of old Harry Service building
they would paint your car
for just $99.95, unless that was
Earl Scheib, now my head
is full of prehistoric jingles
in the back seat of my father’s
‘76 Plymouth Fury, that was a planet
Neil Diamonds’s Love on the Rocks
breaks out of the intro as the car stalls

we watch the snow melt
on the roof of Bernie’s Garage
I’m stuffing insulation into the frame
of skylights, he’s boxing
windows that are never flush
I cough fine pink fibers
my lungs bleed Menthol cigarettes
our Sisyphean tasks never ends

we watch the snow melt
on the roof of Bernie’s Garage
I drift to a poem I wanted to write
about Italian Plasters, German
Cigar makers and Polish Lathers
standing at the corner or Matilda and Yew
on a summer evening in 1904
one bucket of beer, they all take sips
dreading the walk home
wanting a few minutes of freedom
in some dark bar with sawdust floors
before facing life and wives and children

we watch the snow melt
on the roof of Bernie’s Garage
I’ve split my knuckle open
scraping plaster, I’m bleeding
on a wall that smells of mildew
Pellegrino says he’s must be an optimist
I say I’m a working man, ain’t no optimism
ever gonna darken my door

--Jason Baldinger