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"Jason Irwin has a real gift—as well as urgent material—pushing his poetry." — Philip Levine                    Some Days It's A Love Story Copyright 2005 by Jason Irwin Poet Bio: Jason Irwin Sample Poems:     Main Street        At the Grocery        Going Home        Some Days It's A Love Story Reviews:    Ghoti Magazine       NewPages.com Poet Bio   Jason Irwin was born in Jamestown, NY, in 1971 and grew up in Dunkirk, NY, where he attended both Catholic and public schools. He is a graduate of SUNY Fredonia and the MFA Poetry Program at Sarah Lawrence College. He now lives in Astoria (Queens), NY and works as a reading/homework tutor. Poetry Main Street From the front porch we guessed colors of cars, drank lemonade out of paper cups and listened to the Kapinski kids get beat by their mother. That dissonance reverberated through back yards where Virgin Marys kept vigil in bathtub grottoes, and old man Tilly, senile and drunk, promised to pulverize us for throwing rocks at his truck. Twenty years now since he surrendered to the Elks Memorial Home and the Kapinskis moved to some God forsaken Des Moines, or South Dayton, after their mother's fourth husband realized he was a woman, trapped in the wrong movie, I think of them, wonder what became of Priscilla, who showed me her privates behind the rabbit cage when we were nine, or Timmy and George, who were all teeth, sandy hair and bruises no one ever questioned, not even Miss Butler, who taught Third grade. I remember Sally, too, blue as the swimming pool where they found her, too young to cross the street alone or read Hamlet. Sometimes I drive by the old house on Main Street, I can still see them: faces and fists against glass. Copyright ©2005 Jason Irwin Back to top At the Grocery Between produce and discounted bread a man shoves oranges into his pockets. I want to tell him take some apples, too, a banana, avocado, a six pack, anything that will help him through another day, tell all the hungry to come and feats, to feed them like Jesus fed them in the Gospels. Instead I walk to the deli, pat Betsy, up to her elbows in potato salad, famous for her Christmas party striptease. In the break room Tommy sits— mop at his side, legs crossed, boot atop steel-toed boot, going bald, alcoholic— thumbing through a newspaper he can't read. What's up? he asks, as I sit down, eye the clock: quarter of four, fifteen minutes before I punch out and he punches in. Not much, I reply, notice a pallet of canned foods waiting to be stocked and think how I've worked at this store for one year and six months. Too long, and I think how my father and grandfather worked, of all the dreams they must've swallowed to put food on the table, pay the mortgage and know I'm not that faithful or strong. Copyright ©2005 Jason Irwin Back to top Going Home Across from the Babe Ruth Field— where Eddie Zappie pitched three perfect games and could've made it, if not for booze and Stacy Watson— I kick the dust in the parking lot at the old steel mill where both my grandfathers did time, watch the sun through broken windows, the bricks and rust, ten years since anyone worked here. Downtown it's just as quiet, a few old men on benches and kids on bikes racing red lights. All the stores went in '75, now there's a Wal-Mart out by the Thruway. On Center Street it's the same fat girl behind the counter at the convenient store, the same empty box cars on the Third Street overpass and at Sara's Tavern, the same faces drink the once local draft, day after day, like the old women who chant novenas and lust after the priests at St. Mary's. I can hardly imagine what Dunkirk was like when my mother was young, let alone in 1851, when the first train arrived with President Fillmore and Daniel Webster onboard. There are people here who talk of leaving, but only go as far as Bruce's Corner Store, or the Greek diner at the dock. Maybe it's that desolation I love and fear. Maybe it's the view of the hills to the south, or the three smoke stacks of the electric plant at sunset, or maybe it's the sound of my own voice, reciting the streets named for birds and fish as if they were the names of saints. Copyright ©2005 Jason Irwin Back to top Some Days it's a Love Story At P & G Grocery the dairy manager has a Bachelor's in Economics and a pulled groin from lifting crates of milk. He's been writing the first chapter to a novel for six years. Some days it's a love story, some days a comedy, about people in a small town, like the guy in aisle eight who fits all he learned from his father into his right hand and smacks his son for asking too many questions, or the cashier at express who flirts with the younger bank teller who comes in every day for lunch, handing him change she smiles, avoids his eyes and remembers it's been over two years since she's been kissed. Outside, a factory worker, fresh off the midnight trick climbs into a beat up Chevy, opens a can of Milwaukee's Best he bought for breakfast, takes a sip, sets it between his legs, keys the ignition and thinks about the day his wife left, complaining he was the one who changed. Copyright ©2005 Jason Irwin Back to top