With a first line from Allen Ginsberg’s “Kaddish”
Strange now to think of you gone
& the rustic cracked wooden floors
& the cream paint peeling from the walls
& the map of the Bronx stained from age
& the “No Smoking” sign covered by the calendar
& the aroma of oil seeping through the gaps
Strange now to think of strangers who fawn over how much I’ve grown since I was four
& strangers who called me smart from doing multiplication in the corner by the sushi bar when I was five
& strangers who wondered why I was there signing papers, tippy-toeing because I couldn’t see the screen
& strangers who tipped me more because I was a child who kindly took their order
& strangers who watched me cry and sit through hours of the endless void of phone calls, yearning to be
at the beach, the park, anywhere else
& strangers who bought me cake from the Italian bakery on my birthday when no one else would
Strange now to think of the restaurant as home, as when you were here, I’d never admit you to be home
& how your dull walls reflect from my face but the blazing kitchen flame shines through my eyes
& how I’m not sure whether I should hate you, love you, adore you, question you, or destroy you
& how it is my everything, everywhere, but also nothing at all
& how it has been my first: my first meal, my first friends
& I guess, my first home