In front of the pizza shop,
the street is wet and reflects the scattered
lights and I smoke with the group
that stands there. The man next to me
is balding and his beard is gray.
He tells me he lives in an apartment
and doesn’t have to stack wood
or put plastic on windows
because the apartment has people who do all that.
He says he feels he’s wasted his life,
that he graduated from Syracuse and played the Ścello.
He paints houses to pay his rent
and says he’s scared. “I’m terrified”
he tells me,
“I forgot to do anything with my life.” Ron,
who owns the pizza shop,
works from nine to nine each day except Monday.
I ask him how he is as I pay for my pizza.
He say he’s good. He goes to work.
He works. He goes home and watches television.
He asks if I remember the name of some girl
who used to come and order pizza.
I don’t recall her name but it was something
musical — something that sounded Italian.
The kind of thing you say a thousand times.
I think it started with an A.
