microphone and podium





Summer 2007, Volume 3

Poetry by Anthony Starros

athens

a faded blue awning shades
my pop and his sister.

muted honks and a yell float up three stories
from the street below
just echoes when they reach the balcony.

she turns, black jackie-Os in check
to try and see the fuss.
then turns back
smothering her cigarette in a black ashtray.

a white line of smoke floats up
and loosens into a fluff of nothing.

pops takes a sip of his drink
clinking the ice.

they are the only two left of six
and glistening in the humidity they pause
just the two of them
together.

a cricket chirps.

my aunt lights another smoke
and as she sparks the lighter
pop cracks a smile
reaches slowly over and pulls
one from the white pack on the table.

he is back home

and a kid again at sixty

filling up with youth

indestructible

floating above himself.

after thirty years smoke-free
he taps the filter against his thumbnail
looks at me
then grabs the lighter
and flicks it like a pro
bringing it closer to his face
cupping his hand around the flame
the last bit of orange glowing in the sky behind him.


l.a.

her american name is lydia.
in greek it’s much prettier:
lee-thia.
either way pop leaves monday
for one last visit.

when the tumor was found
they said there wasn’t much time.
and now
a month later
she isn’t talking or eating.

last year I wrote a poem about them:
the last two left of six.

soon he’ll be the only one.

I thought about that today as I rubbed my foot
sitting at the edge of my bed
and felt a new callus on my toe
a wedge of skin made hard by years of standing.

it made me feel old
that I have a callus on my foot.

then I just felt stupid
that something like that would make me feel old
when pop has already buried
two parents, two sisters, and is about to do the third.

I wonder how many calluses my dad’s toes have
how much softness is left
I mean
how much can one person take
when everything that used to be soft
is pressed
until all that’s left is hard and impenetrable.

I never did show my dad that poem
and I probably never will.

I don’t think he needs any more calluses.



BIO:  Anthony Starros, born and raised in Hollywood, finished an MFA in fiction from CSULB in 1999. He began teaching soon after at various colleges in and around the LB area. In 2002, he accepted an invitation to become faculty at LBCC full-time.



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