P.J. Horoszko (poetry)



Watching my father
age at the Irish Restaurant
in our little
mahogany booth, chewing
salmon or steak
he just eats
egg white omelets now.

The story he tells – he
loves telling this story –
it’s his favorite
story about being mugged
in a parking garage
while he worked

in Philadelphia, the two hoods
he struck them
with his briefcase, pretending
to pull out a lighter,
he says he knew
when they asked for a light
that they were looking

for trouble he laughs
he says he thought
of driving

over their bodies
they were on the ground
their battered bones
under his tires and scream
and scream on down the ramp.


by P.J. Horoszko

Return to Issue 47