Often times, when I used to walk home,
I'd see Mr. Tarlow standing outside his house on Strathmore Road.
He'd be leaning up against his car like he was waiting for
Smoking a cigarette in the shade of a Japanese maple.
He wore those tweed jackets with suede elbows.
The kind that makes you look like you know you're important. The Tarlows had a white station wagon.
On the driver's side, written in gold script,
Were the words: "Twin Oaks."
Someone once told me Glenys Tarlow was from Maine.
Twin Oaks sounded like it was in Maine.
Sometimes I'd see Glenys Tarlow walk across their lawn
And softly enter the passenger's seat of the wagon.
She wore her red hair in a tight chignon.
Once, I saw that it was held in place with a coral pin.
The Tarlows used to live in the city.
Someone told me that their house was decorated with modern
I imagined Mr. Tarlow sitting in a metal chair,
Setting his drink on a glass table.
They were younger than parents, but too old to not be.
Mr. Tarlow wore black glasses and penny loafers.
"What does he think he is? Some kind of overgrown prep-school
My father used to say.
"His loafers have holes in them. Someone should remind him
we're all Jews here."
They grew vegetables in the flowerbed encircling their house.
Sometimes on the way home from Saturday morning services
I'd see them outside gardening together.
Once, I saw them sitting on their lawn with a group of friends.
Two women wearing jeans and a man with long hair.
They were laughing, eating cake,
And Glenys Tarlow had her hand on her husband's thigh.