In junior high Spanish class
Mr. Koochman gave each kid a nickname
that followed us into the streets.
The pouty ingénue was Labios Levine,
the over-developed blonde Melones Morgan,
the kid from the projects, Kong Coleman.
The hairy one became Oso,
the sweaty one Puerco,
and the frail, nervous one
who rode the D train early
with the night nurses and winos,
was dubbed Hércules.
This was the Bronx in 1965.
Koochman, a cadaver in tweed, Continue reading “Ken Haas, Two Poems”