From water to water he worked
he traveled by IND. I know little else
about him. Sol worked at a pocketbook
factory in Long Island City. Everyday
from Coney Island to Queens. Immigrants
off to their factory jobs. I am told he
was gentle, kind. Did he watch Luna Park’s
pinwheels spin through the F Train
window (then the Culver Line) on his way
to work? Or the crowds shuffle
home full & sticky after dark? Their
bellies fatter, wallets emptier. Bodies
sticky with sugar and sex, covered
in grains of Atlantic Ocean salt
a simple fold
navy patent leather
he made all day in the factory
dye & leather stains stitches
piecemeal work brought home after
the factory closed for the day
to make extra hours =
dollars. Sometimes, the men
were the sounds like in their hallway?
Yiddish? German? Italian? Russian? Spanish?
Soft or loud? Sol had a heart
in the hospital bathroom (his second).
I was five months old.
I have three pocket books he made somewhere on
these city islands in a factory surrounded by water