^{in Loving Memory of Thrift-Store Pete}

    And then a kiss, but more than this
    I wish you love
   Love!

Played on a speaker in a cup,
a ghetto-bird-surround-sound. 
Like in the happiest ending 
that can come out of a storybook 
made in this city, it may become
the song I devote to my future
wife as you dedicated it 
to your own beloved.

But this aria is yours. Until then,
I’d wish to one day unlock the magic
in hitting Joe’s notes flat while still
being so smooth. For you, it was all in 
the hips, your eyes, the smile, infectious. 
Customers walking in saying,

“Buenas, cuánto vale estas cosas?”

“Tres camisas, dos jeans, una gorra … 
Quince peso.”

And that’s super generous because
kickin’ it at the store you’d give away 
designer jeans and shirts with tags for $3 each, 
throwing the hat in for free if that meant 
you can dress abuelita and the nietos in her custody.

Maybe $20 if your next customer filling
a bag is shipping it to Haiti.
“You know Wyclef?” You’d say 
to the young brother loud enough
for me to hear. I’d smile 
before the mad clicking on an iPod commenced 
to spin in circles and a few licks 
of Santana-infused Jean follows.
Years later I imagine learning what you’d 
already try to teach me from a wise 
friend, “We’re all just distant relatives …”

    Stop the lootin’, stop the shootin’
    Pick-pockin’ on the corner
    See as the rich is getting richer
    The poor is getting poorer

Look Pete, a tear. We’ll never get
out of here, will we? You’ve clothed 
moms, children, fiends and foremans, 
broke bread with the house-less and 
you still opened up shop after your ER visit— 
jumped blocks from your home after closing
one night.

And I was confused because you 
shrugged it off. And you saw my anger
as a piece of theirs, a knowing look
with a dash of, “I’ve been there.”

Threaded in your power, with fedora
and feather, single gold ring and tortoise cane, 
a mezcla of Bataan, Miyagi, and Master Yoda. 
Ironed pleats on pant legs, I imagine your 
ironing board flying open to greet you in steam.
Heavy starch spraying out the can as it hits 
a hot pair of old Ben Davis’s copped 
from behind the counter.

“Paired with the right jacket, these’ll be 
some baaaad pants.

But you have to see the good in them. 
Give them a little more love.”