In this neighborhood you’d better learn to fight,
my father says. Real schooling’s from hard knocks.                       
Books won’t save your life. He knows I’d rather write     

and read. I don’t talk back. His love is no birthright.
Instead, I bluff, act tough. He teaches me to box.    
In this neighborhood you’d better learn to fight,   

he says, or you’ll be prey; better tough Israelite                
than studious Black Hat, defenseless Orthodox.
Books won’t save your life. I know you’d rather write.                

Next day was Hanukkah, the Festival of Lights.               
“Hey Jew-Boy,” some kids jeered (as if I wore ear-locks).                      
I was no Maccabee. Bluff called, I could not fight.  

I came to battered, bruised, but had no appetite                 
for bloodshed or revenge. Instead, I walked for blocks,
prayed books would save my life. I swore someday I’d write      

these lines. And now I have. We never kissed goodnight
yet every poem I wrote, he saved. The paradox:  
a bullet stopped his life; lead plug he could not fight.         
I escape the neighborhood with every word I write.