Leningrad's Sister City And Her Cuban Sandwiches

by Jack Varnell

It began not so innocentlywith voyeuristic tendencies.the sound of concreteand confetti in the night.


Screen time being cutled to breaking and enteringby a felon on the runwith lots of potential.


A self imposed orphansought a musical boy on the wall,fading tattoos, and acherry popsicle on two legs.


Prison visits were nice.Something to look forward toa reason for her new dress.Letters from there even better.


A poet was born.The razor was sharp,but chasing a criminalis what meant leaving a Mark.


Preteen propheciesthat there was nothingbut inebriation held trueon fifth avenue.


It never tookthat much couch changeto fill a gallon jug.Employment meant free food.


Red rag-top land yachtknew The Place.Charlie Brown knew a laundromatwhere one could score TV hysteria.


So a sunset was soughtin a stolen vehicle headed southwhere crystal ashtrays couldn't fly,burgers were expensive, and cocktails cheap.


From the comfort of a new homeIrish bar tunes proved to be just thatthey were Irish. They were bar tunes.They felt like home.


Cuban sandwiches made bysurvivors of the boatliftwere served with loveand gladiolas in the colors of the day.


Fresh frozen watermelted in sandy sun-rays.no hurricanes, just sunsetsin Leningrad's sister city.


Momentary anger becamefalse memories of protective custody.Cloudy stories with no picture proof.No-one innocent. One condemned and guilty.


Some bridges built towards successon the reputations of self and others.Other bridges just burned, igniting old flames.Passion of history and fortunes to come.


All the books were gonejust like the hope and second chance.With no place to call home,life in black plastic bags gets lost.


A guy can make amendsand have it never matter.Just an attempted murderertaking the usual guilt trip to nowhere.