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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