The Housekeeper
(fr. "Memories of Bedford-Stuyvessant")
He didn't come one Thursday,
Mr. Woods, my father's bookkeeper.
Meyer, the plumber, hadn't seen him
down on the Bowery, on the black
littered sidewalk, lying against
a brick building, a fifth
of whiskey in his hand.
Every third Thursday he came,
tall, gaunt, skin the color of ochre,
The long black suit with detachable,
frayed, white collar and cuffs.
His narrow tin case holding
a quill pen and points.
He'd sit at the dark mahogany desk
in my father's office and with
curlicues, flourishes, loops and scrolls
made entries in long grey ledgers,
artistic pages of calligraphy
my father proudly showed to his friends.
After his work, he was fed
in the white, tile kitchen: a large
porterhouse steak, pan-fried potatoes,
bitter green salad, a crusty French
loaf, glasses of dark red wine.
Then back he came one Thursday
in his long black suit, a bright
new peach colored shirt, a pair
of shiny black patent shoes,
tossing dollar bills to neighborhood
children. He carried brown bags
filled with porterhouse steaks
bottles of dark red wine.
He had inherited his uncle's estate,
a building, a large sum of money.
They celebrated. Porterhouse steaks,
green salad with bitter wine vinegar,
crusty French loaves, glasses of dark red wine.
He left and didn't come back on Thursdays,
Time passed.
One day, Meyer the plumber came.
Back on the Bowery, he saw him,
among the littered puddles,
a fifth of whisky in his hand.
He never came again.
Copyright 1990, 2019
Grace J. Neyssen
December 18 1925 - November 23 2019
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