By: John Ziegler

Mulberries

I remember orchids through the window
of a solarium’s silver glass,
on Ruben Patterson’s property, his estate,

with its mammoth mansion,
with its broad veranda and 4 car garage,
his cream – and – gold Stutz Bearcat.

The meticulous perennial beds in back were flush
with stands of columbine, foxglove, bearded iris,
rooted beneath the mulberry tree I climbed to pick sweet dark berries,

purple stains across the chest of my white tee shirt,

ever the risk that he would arrive home
while I was high in the tree and caught.

As much as the mulberries, the adrenaline rush was a draw,
spawning images in my mind –

the police cruiser, lights flashing,
the police station,
the Juvie Cop, his pack of Lucky Strikes on the desk,

his Zippo and a heavy glass ashtray,
sweated, detained until my parents could bail me back to freedom,
acting remorseful and contrite.

Foot Race

Albert Cassone threw himself from the Eighth Street Bridge.

Most Saturdays he showed up in the alley
behind Freddy Schmerker’s house,
dressed in a dark blue suit and polished black captoes,
jacket over his arm like a waiter in an old world restaurant,
graying hair slicked back, pocket full of dimes.

The dimes were for bets on foot races against any of us
in our high tops, dungarees turned up, white tee shirts.
He never won. He always paid.

Albert lived with a brother in their deceased parent’s
brick row house on Franklin Street.

He was soft-spoken and nervous. We knew nothing more about him.
After the races he sat on the curb with us. No one spoke.

Albert was skinny and hunched, had big hands
that he used to slice the air when he ran.
He hung his jacket over the fuchsia Rose of Sharon
in Mrs. Bechdol’s yard.
When he rolled up his pants cuffs we noticed
his white bony ankles, he wore no socks.

Eddy said – he must be batty, who comes in a suit
to race kids and bet on it to boot,
lose every race and come back again?

Some of us tried to race twice but no dice.

Summer wore into fall and after the County Fair
school began again and we forgot about racing and Albert.

On a day in October the news came:
Dressed in a business suit and polished dress shoes,
Albert Cassone died after a fall from the Eighth Street Bridge.
He was predeceased by his beloved younger sister, Camilla
and is survived by older brother, Martin.

We never spoke of him after that
but I thought of him when I bought my first suit.

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John Ziegler is a poet and painter who recently migrated to a mountain town in northern Arizona.