Thursday, December 10, 2009

poem for Vito

Vito was an old Italian portrait painter
who lived over our loft
on East 12th street
in n.y.c..
The one next to Physique Memorabilia,
a little hole in the wall vintage magazine shop.
He spent his days painting and listening to opera
which I could hear
penetrating the wooden floor boards that seperated the space between us
If we got too loud underneath him he would bang his pots and pans on the floor
and yell
"shud UUUUP"
I miss you Vito,
although I hardly even knew you
green party members coming in and out of our lives,
Roberto the Nuyorican poet
Ben the old vaudville actor sleeping on the trampoline we found abandoned in Jersey City
occasional sitings of Frank Stella on the street
and that trip to City Island,
Who were we?
then and now?

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