Spring 2009 [Issue No. 16]
The Deli on Granville
I lived in the attic back then,
and late those evenings I had to study
and couldn’t afford to go drinking
I’d run down to the deli and buy
a knish and some kishke.
I’d watch the lame son
wrap each item in white paper
while his father, aproned at the register,
would point to the cans on the wall
and scream, “Serve yourself! Serve yourself!”
I’d grab a tin of baked beans and he’d smile.
Now, years later, I return to the deli
and find that it’s closed.
The sign on the door confirms
what everybody knows:
There has been a death in the family.
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