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Grandpa sat like a presiding Judge
up the stairs, in a sort of mezzanine
office with a wooden rail in front
like the ones in TV courtrooms,
as dad tried his best to sell
linoleum and sofas down below.
I loved to go to work with him at night.
We’d watch the great comedians on TV:
Red Skelton, Danny Thomas, Milton Berle.
We'd put their faces on, the cardboard masks
the Maytag folks had sent as a promotion.
Outside I wandered Easton Avenue,
a fairyland of colored neon signs:
Western Auto, the Strand Theater, Sears,
White Castle, on Kingshighway (where else?) —
all of it was child-safe, in those days..
In a small courtyard behind the store, enclosed
by brick and the garage's rotting wood,
cucumber vines grew from seeds we’d planted,
winding wild with cukes, as though enchanted.
I'd hunt with Dad and Grandpa for those treasures,
though why you'd would eat them, I didn't know.
I lived for joining Daddy at the store,
be paid in magic price tags, watch TV,
Dad's face all red from entertaining me.
We only stopped when customers came in,
and I was glad that didn’t happen much.
How was I to know
he hated every minute in that place,
hated his father’s stern, rebuking face,
with only a little boy to make him smile?
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