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and demanded a new

deal for the hapless and the

poor.

nothing was corrected last

time.

nothing will be changed this

time.

the poor will remain poor.

the unemployed will remain

so.

the homeless will remain

homeless

and the politicians,

fat upon the land, will thrive

forever.

those marvelous lunches

when I was in grammar school

my parents were

poor

and in my lunch bag there was

only a peanut butter sandwich.

Richardson didn’t have a

lunch bag,

he had a lunch pail with

compartments, a

thermos full of

chocolate milk.

he had ham sandwiches,

sliced beef sandwiches,

apples, bananas, a

pickle and a large bag of

potato chips.

I sat next to Richardson

as we ate.

his potato chips looked

so good—

large and crisp as the

sun blazed upon

them.

“you want some potato

chips?” he would

ask.

and each day

I would eat some.

as I went to school each

day

my thoughts

were on Richardson’s

lunch, and especially

those chips.

each morning as we

studied in class

I thought about

lunchtime.

and sitting next to

Richardson.

Richardson was the

sissy and the other

boys looked down

on me

for eating with

him

but I

didn’t care.

it was the potato

chips, I couldn’t

help myself.

“you want some

potato chips, Henry?”

he would

ask.

“yes.”

the other boys got

after me

when Richardson

wasn’t

around.

“hey, who’s your

sissy friend?

you one

too?”

I didn’t like that

but the potato

chips were more

important.

after a while

nobody spoke to

me.

sometimes I ate

one of Richardson’s

apples

or I got half a

pickle.

I was always

hungry.

Richardson was

fat,

he had a big

belly

and fleshy

thighs.

he was the only

friend I had in

grammar

school.

we seldom spoke

to each

other.

we just sat

together at

lunchtime.

I walked home with

him after school

and often some of

the boys would

follow us.

they

would gather around

Richardson,

gang up on him,

push him around,

knock him

down

again and

again.

after they were

finished

I would go

pick up his lunch

pail,

which was

spilled on its

side

with the lid

open.

I would place the

thermos back

inside,

close the

lid.

then I would

carry the pail as

I walked Richardson

back to his

house.

we never spoke.

as we got to his door

I would hand him

the lunch

pail.

then the door would

close and he would

be gone.

I was the only friend

he had.

sissies live a hard

life.

The Look:

I once bought a toy rabbit

at a department store

and now he sits and ponders

me with pink sheer eyes:

He wants golf balls and glass

walls.

I want quiet thunder.

Our disappointment sits between us.

the big one

he buys 5 cars a month, details them, waxes and buffs

them out, then

resells them at a profit of one or two grand.

he has a nice Jewish wife and he tells me that he

bangs her until the walls shake.

he wears a red cap, squints in the light, has a regular

job besides the car gig.

I have no idea of what he is trying to accomplish and maybe he

doesn’t either.

he’s a nicer fellow than most, always good to see him,

we laugh, say a few bright lines.

but

each time

after I see him

I get the blues for him, for me, for all of us:

for want of something to do

we keep slaying our small dragons

as the big one waits.

the genius

this man sometimes forgets who

he is.

sometimes he thinks he’s the

Pope.

other times he thinks he’s a

hunted rabbit

and hides under the

bed.

then

all at once

he’ll recapture total

clarity

and begin creating

works of

art.

then he’ll be all right

for some

time.

then, say,

he’ll be sitting with his

wife

and 3 or 4 other

people

discussing various

matters

he will be charming,

incisive,

original.

then he’ll do

something

strange.

like once

he stood up

unzipped

and began

pissing

on the

rug.

another time

he ate a paper

napkin.

and there was

the