Now I truly am old enough.
I need stronger booze,
the kind that will not wait for my stomach to hit the floor
before it takes the eyes out of my head
and turns them into sparks so tiny
that I will not even remember passing them
in a dark alleyway behind the Rialto Theater.
My first suit was very black.
It belonged to Eddie Kane who died in the Bronx.
He never left Fordham Road
until the last bus was gone.
Then he climbed onto the first garbage truck
of the following day.
I feel much the same.
Both of our mothers were friendly with nuns.
My inheritance was a little too small.
He cut his up like a pizza.
I eat whatever I find lying under my bed
and count the split-up seconds until you are home.
Michael Cooney has published poetry in Badlands, Second Chance Lit, Bitter Oleander, Big Picture Review and other journals and is currently working on historical novellas, one of which appears in the 2021 Running Wild Novella Anthology. He has taught English and writing in the New York public high schools and community colleges. @mjcooney1205