Paul Simon* says after changes upon changes

we are more or less the same. We are more or less the same.

That monotonous mantra blares at me now like Phillies games used to.

Eight-year-old Harvey, full of fury. The cosmic order

had spun into disarray when Stan’s beat up Good Humor

ice-cream truck stopped at the Fitzpatrick’s house

instead of his. He had to blow it up.

 

He looked past Mrs. O’Donough’s daily new boyfriend

furtively enter her house, Ruth Rubinson scoffing

at Mary Ellen Fitzpatrick playing ball in the street

“after she started to develop.” To Big Eddy

Fitzpatrick, six doors down, sleeveless t-shirt, tattoos.

Ice cream truck, big as a barn, stopped amidst beat up Chevy’s and

Fords randomly parked on the street that we thought we owned, playing ball.

Clean-cut version of the Cory kid yelled,

“I’m in love with the Marines,” home on leave.

 

Little Eddy Fitzpatrick staggered up the street like a duckling, hour after

the old man had walked a straighter line. Fitzpatrick’s crammed in

that row house like a phone booth. I hatched my plan.

Faster than Richie Ashburn diving into third I struck…

Opened the truck hood, turned the radiator cap, poured in sand,

knew it would blow up.

 

Mrs. Fitzpatrick faded into the red heart in her picture

of Jesus. All that blew up was my inner world.

 

Years later visiting, I see Big Eddy on the street, don’t know

if he’ll recognize me. “Harvey Schwartz, I thought you’d be

an unemployed rabbi by now.” Which proves the old man

has a sense of humor and knows more than I thought.

 

If I’d looked up through sneakers hanging on telephone

wires, ambient light at night, and lots of haze…

 

I might have heard Sputnik whisper a message to me.

“You were lucky it didn’t blow up kid. Stand up for your rights.

Just don’t be such a dumb-ass about what they are.”

 

*Boxer Paul Simon