slam etc.

I. THE NANA PULLA GUY
He was a kid
With a bicycle,
An unusual bicycle,
One with a steering wheel
Instead of handle bars.
Did he make it himself?
We used to see him
When we passed through his neighborhood,
On the way to Nana Scarpulla's.

Riding in the "way back"
Of Mom's old pink station wagon
With the window rolled down,
We used to yell things out to him,
Dumb things, like:
"We're goin' swimmin' with bow-legged women!"
"Is your refrigerator running?"
Sometimes he would hear us
And roll his eyes.

Eventually we just told him where we were going.
"We're goin' to Nana Scarpulla's!"
And that got shortened to,
"We're goin' to Nana Pulla's!"
We started referring to him
As "the Nana Pulla guy."
"Where's the Nana Pulla guy?"
"Here comes the Nana Pulla guy."
"Ready, one, two three...
We're goin' to Nana Pulla's!"

What ever became of the Nana Pulla guy?
Would he remember us?
Did he grow up
and work in an office?
Did he become a policeman?
Does he ever tell stories
About the noisy kids
Yelling out the back of a pink station wagon?
Or did he just get drafted
And die in Viet Nam?

II. UNKNOWN SCHOOLMATE
Walking home from Towson High School
One afternoon my sophomore year,
I found myself walking next to
A girl I didn't know.
We introduced ourselves,
But I can't remember her name.
All I remember was
That she said she hated her father.

"You hate your father?!?
How can that be?
You don't really mean that!"
"O yes I do,"
She said with conviction.
And proceeded to tell me
How he had killed her mother,
And then woke up all the kids
and told them,
"I shot your mother."
Then he called the police
And now he was in jail
And she hated him.

I should have been understanding,
Or comforting,
Or something,
But I was only shocked.
I was of no help whatsoever.
I never saw her again.
I guess our class schedules didn't coincide.
I mean it was a big school,
Overcrowded during those baby boom years.
I hope she had a really understanding social worker,
Some good counseling,
Or, somewhere along the line, found Jesus.
Or did she just end up hating God as well?
I pray that she has learned to cope.


III. THE KEMP MILL BOOK WORM
No one knew his name,
But anyone
Who was ever out and about
In our end of Kemp Mill
Knew exactly who you were referring to
When you mentioned the the bushy gray eyebrows,
The glasses resting down on the end of his nose,
The cigar clenched tight in his teeth.
The book held out at an angle in front,
The pages illuminated by a little attached book light,
His slow, measured steps
As he paced the neighborhood streets
Reading,
And smoking,
And getting in his daily walk
All at the same time.

Sometimes in the late morning,
Or early afternoon,
Or in summer twilight after dinner.
Always in the middle of the road;
Never on the sidewalk.
Maybe he was just out there all the time.
Perpetually roaming
The mundane, suburban streets
While the book transported him
Who knows where.
New Orleans?
Mars?
Ancient Greece?

He never said anything;
Just strolled through the neighborhood.
A sleep walking phantom,
Unaware of his notoriety,
Oblivious to the curious stares
And turning of heads,
But not to the turning of pages.
Was he reading novels
Too exciting to put down?
Romances?
Mysteries?
Or was he studying something?
One would say he was an intellectual health nut ...
...were it not for the cigar.

I haven't seen him lately.
Did he sell his house
to move closer to his children?
Is he in a nursing home?
Is he still alive?
There's an emptiness in the streets now.
Sad.
I never took the time
Or chance
To try to get to know him.
Would he have wanted me to?