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Nearing Harry Greb


We walk along old Millvale Avenue,
hands in pockets,
inhaling the scents and energies,
deleting from our sight any signs
that don't smack of Pittsburgh's
twentieth century teens,

the Pittsburgh that lives
in our frosty vision, alive
in a sepia black and white;

"This is," you whisper into
my cauliflower ear, "the street
where he lived";

You slide an arm under my robe,
and hold it there, above my waist;

With each smile the muscles of my face
pull the scars on my bald eyebrows;

"Ghosts are alive on this street," I
mumble, heavily;

You massage my swollen liver,
dark eyes smiling;

Our prizefighting is too much;

We smell the rosin
and feel the bell.
 


 

 


 

Phil Rice /  2009