Guys Like Me

 

Poems by
Stuart Feinhor

 

Tzivi's dead going on sixty-five.
Please don't do this!

A cop pushes us off.
Helps en route. Another cop.

The guy mounts my Honda
on the rear of his pick-up.

I buckle. Hey, baby!
I'm calling from the road. Dinner?

He turns to me: Ever been to the Bronx?