Words on Life on Days (or Ode to Witherow)

The witching hour nigh, I took the keys to my LeSabre
From my black leather jacket, waved cheerio to Tito's neighbor.
Red-eyed from the drugs, I swerved down Reynolds Street,
Past the docks, the horseshoe crabs, the bum with the clubbed feet.

Some delinquents armed with dish soap had snuck out to misbehave--
Suds bubbling from the fountain, Olde Codger rolling in his grave.
I almost stopped to interrupt Fembles' prayer in Great Town Square,
But thought twice upon the sight of his yellow teeth and scraggly hair.

Suddenly, I thought aloud, in the midst of Sheryl Crow's refrain,
"I haven't eaten in the last two days"--the hunger hit me like a train.
And presently, outside his home, stood Stanwix with his hound.
He beckoned me inside to chat, as he was feeling down.

A kingly meal, by happenstance, alighted on my porcelain plate,
A cheesy sub it was, indeed--cause enough to celebrate.
Per usual, I ate too fast; and mired in a post-meal malaise
I pondered Pendelton's faux pas while playing cards at Marcy's place.

"An accident, I swear it's true," he later mumbled at the park,
The dogwoods standing stoically with leprous trunks of molting bark.
I tapped two Newports from my pack, and gently offered one
To my beleaguered friend.  Oh, poor, poor, Pendelton!

"What's wrong?" asked Mrs. Stanwix, who smelled of ripened fruit
And had a get-up reminiscent of Mom's herringbone leisure suit.
"To paraphrase a friend," I shrugged, while gazing out the window,
"You never know, Scarpetti.  You just never ever know."

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