Let’s not forget the General
Shuffling out in his gray slippers
To feed the pigeons in Logan Square.
He wore a battered White Sox cap
And a heavy woolen scarf tossed
Over his shoulder, even in summer.
I remember how he muttered to himself
And coughed into his newspaper
And complained about his gout
To the other Latvian exiles,
The physicist who lived on Gogol Street
In Riga, my grandfather’s hometown,
The auxiliary policeman from Daugavpils,
And the chemical engineer,
Who always gave me hard candy,
Though grandfather spit
And grandmother hurried me away
When she saw them coming.