A poem by Michael Fiorito

I don’t want to walk down Cortelyou Rd and not see you, Ric.

So I will make my own Cortelyou Rd.  A street where there are no lights, no Stop sings, only Go signs.  Some things will be the same, some different. You will forever hold court at the Connecticut muffin.  As before, I’ll come to you after a day of working from home, pushing Travis in his carriage.  We’ll shoot the breeze for a while.  Theo is forever ten years old on this Cortelyou Rd.  He laughs at your jokes.  Later he says, “dad, you have crazy friends”.  His hair is light brown, his eyes are bright, like little stars.


If you don’t mind, we’ll not got to Sycamore, because I’m sick of more and would rather have less.
Look Ric, Vox is celebrating a reopening that will last for all time.  People are dancing.  Flezadoza is playing “History”, Bill Bern, Billy Ringo, Andy, Tom Peters, Chris Garay and Decoster are in the wings.  Your cup of seltzer is spilling over; it will never be empty.  


This Vox is decorated with brilliantly colored chairs and couches.  There is a blue model of Saturn hanging from the ceiling.  It dimly lights the stage.


Debi, serving beer behind the bar, smiles; another big night!  Astro sits in Angela’s lap, curled up in a ball.   Big Sean is near the entrance, not so much keeping the bad guys out, but keeping the good guys in.


Tom Martinez captures it all on film.

There is no gin joint like this one.


Like you once said, quoting Ben Franklin, “if we can’t hang together, we’ll all hang separately”.
On this Cortelyou Rd we’re always together, Ric.


And that is perfectly fine with me.