In the eighties I met
a flea market vendor named Tim
who recently died. Like
no one else, Tim was obese,
bi-sexual, amazing. He
often brought his new lovers
to work his stand with him.
The first time I walked by him
he yelled out to me:
Do you want an honest critique
of your outfit? B minus said Tim.
Mostly for my shoes, too red.
Tim was a slaughterer in a meat factory.
He was a supporter of the man
whose name is not good for my poems.
He knew the word tsotschke
even though only knew two Jews,
one a former lover named Sophie.
He met me once outside of the market
at a nearby diner because he wanted
to write his memoir, mostly about
his sex life and when I said
I wasn’t the right ghostwriter he suggested
I live a little, then give him a call.
Love your acuity for tenderness and honesty about your acceptance and reaction. Gorgeous poem!
Dear Esther, love your writing about issues that are kind of hidden and you shine light on them..so intimate and moving.