Deli (poem)

My father and I sit 

on velvet cushions

with milky stripes

like frosting on birthday cakes. 

An old waiter mumbles

and places a lumpy hors d'oeuvre before us–

something that ends with an “i.”

Dad nudges the smooth china towards me,

his fingers dancing in the air like fairies 

before he pops an olive into his mouth.

Then my pastrami on a kaiser

rolls over to our table

and the old big-bellied schmuck 

gives me that look,

the look that says I should have ordered it on rye.

The meat is perfect inside

pink with a rope of rusty stitching 

around the edges.

Double-fisting his pastrami and Coke,

Dad looks over at the picture 

of Sandy Koufax on the wall

and I know he is back at the wooden tables 

at his favorite spot in Beverly Hills,

the deli where Grandma Shirley saw Koufax,

our favorite player.

Number 32,

shakes the hand of the owner

and takes a seat in his reserved booth

his picture hanging on the wall above.

I've heard the story enough times 

that I am there witnessing it

my own hand swallowed 

by his broad, meaty southpaw.

I take a bite and look up at Dad, 

overpowered by the juicy beef.

The waiter places a crown of babka,

with a swirl of chocolate, before us.

Dad smiles as he removes 

some excess chocolate from his cheeks,

gives the waiter an approving nod,

and calls him a mensch.

But I get the sense he’s really talking to me,

proud to be sharing a pastrami at Katz's Deli,

Talking of Koufax and LA,

just like he did with his dad

all those years ago

on the Sunset Strip