SPRINGTIME IN MILWAUKEE

1956

After supper, Lee and I
would pedal Schwinns to the lake
where old men joked in Polish
in the fishy air
and lifted nets full of skittering smelt
that twinkled silver in kerosene lamplight
under a rising moon.

As we rode home,
the open doors of Kutschki’s diner
and Wally’s accordion shop
sent sauerkraut blessings and polkas to us
while our balloon tires
kept beat with the oom-pahs
on cobblestoned Mitchell Street.

We’d lock our bikes to a fence in the alley,

breathe in air perfumed by lilacs,
talk in the dark about the Braves
and Patricia’s boobs,
smoke our last Lucky,
say goodnight and go separate ways 
for the rest of our lives.

One of us headed east for New York,
its culture, art, cocaine,
late nights in ratty rent-capped apartments
crammed with hangers-on
but always, until he lost him to Covid,
the same bearded roommate
holding his hand.

The other remained in Wisconsin,
taught school and paid off a mortgage,
had kids who grew up, an IRA,
and friends he could meet
some mornings for coffee or later for beers,
but no one waiting at home
when he opens the door.

Early this winter one of us died.
Seventy years we’d stayed in touch,
questioned ourselves, but not one another
about decisions we made long ago
on spring nights in southside alleys
while locking bikes and breathing in
the lilac scented air.

Jerry Krajnak is a Vietnam veteran who later survived forty years in public school classrooms and earned degrees from UW Eau Claire, Wichita State, and Kansas University. He shares a North Carolina mountain cabin with rescue animals, tries to grow heirloom tomatoes in summer, and writes a few poems when it’s cold outside. Recent work appears in numerous journals including Eclectica, Sheila-Na-Gig, New Verse News, Autumn Sky Poetry Daily, and Mockingheart Review. Also at jerrykrajnak.com