"86"

He grew up talking astronomy
with the regulars,
treading carefully
‘round guillotine kitchen doors—
“86 It”

Spent hours dropping eaves
on decadent multiformities,
imagining kingdoms
in cancerous rainbow packs.

Remembering
the ole Rebesko’s ways–
a curse & a kiss.
Bacon extra crinkly,
a crisp Benjamin underneath.

Days spent undertaking
the jellybean quest,
steps boisterous
in the unguarded rejoice—
mere shoe-lace tumbles,
knee-scraped calligraphy
reading back
tumultuous vividity.

Those walls imploded
under burden of memory;
Ole Rebesko’s legacy
in ashes.

At his grave remain
the grease-stained and
blood-splattered apron—
artifacts of the sweltering time sink.

Beneath his village moniker
lies the “Victory”—
his people carry it on,
spilling it onwards
into the irascible grease.

He carries it now:
remembering celestial milkshakes,
snuck-dollar delicacies.
He remembers
the world within the man—
“86 It”
that means finished.