Anthony G. Poem by Glen Kappy

I wasn't the only one afraid of Anthony G.
I've comforted myself over time
that at least he was older and bigger than me.
For even boys his senior in the blacktop playground
showed respect if not fear for this bully.

Anthony was fast on his feet and nimble at sports
but he wasn't a regular at games.
He had a coterie of boys who followed him—
all Italian as was his mom
in black leather jackets and Italian knits.

They were smokers—Anthony with his Chesterfields—
with a milder interest in muscle cars
and interests in rumbles and guns and switch blades
and Penthouse magazines and whores—
toughs who mainly kept company with themselves.

With them at his side there was no fighting "fair"
but no one tried in the years I knew him.
With Hispanic last name and pecan skin
his attraction to these boys remains a puzzle—
for these were things they normally hated.

It was a trial when he'd want to hang with us—
all younger and more innocent.
With barking laugh and lots of arms and hands
he'd spin out tales—himself the hero—
that no one dared to doubt aloud.

He was one that I and many avoided.
Then were years I hardly saw nor heard of him
till the day I met him on the subway train.
Anthony had mellowed and eager to share
told me of his love, a cousin to a girl I'd dated.