Soul Food Poem by David Alpaugh

I met the old man again last night
sitting by the side of the road.
I see more and more of him now
since my father died.

He asked me for food again.
All I had were a few Smith Brothers cough drops—
the black ones with the star in the middle
and the two sinister rabbis on the box…
the licorice tasting ones I never liked…
the ones I used to hide behind the bed
when my mother turned on the vaporizer
and left me perspiring in the dark.

I gave him the cough drops.
It was no big deal.
Not what you’d call “a real test.”
Not like my Ph.D. orals
or having my colon resectioned.

He accepted them fastidiously
with dark, bony fingers,
his eyes shining with nervous-breakdown energy.
He had so much to impart to the chosen son!
Then he made a fist—
and they were his cough drops, not mine.

Once again he shared no magic.
Once again he gave no advice.
Once again he did not leave me beans.

Some nights I wake with a cry,
certain I am out of the running—
that I’ve lost everything for lack of a few choice words
or a liverwurst sandwich I forgot to put in my sack.
That the old man teaches 101.
That the castle keep is empty.
That the task I must perform
has yet to be imagined or assigned.
That I’m not simple enough for him yet.
That he cares only for youth.
That he waits around in rest rooms like Verlaine,
saving everything for an énfant terrible.

As I shake out the sheets each morning
I keep looking for a crumb
from the Gingerbread House,
some ashes from the tinderbox,
a slice of the white snake,
a tiny strand of Rapunzel’s hair…

something I can bring back to the lab
and put under a microscope…
something I can carry with me
to show nonbelievers where I’ve been.