My Clone

My Clone


Will Nixon

Sample Poem

My First Meal at the Clam Broth House Downstairs

My first meal at the Clam Broth House
    downstairs, my father’s treat
before leaving.  The Cuban waiter
    in black shirt & white tie,
glasses tinted like limo windows,
    led us through back rooms with back rooms
to a vinyl booth red as boxing gloves,
    ketchups mixed with vinegars.
He told us especials we didn’t understand.
    My father ordered New England clam chowder.
I tried pasta puttanesca & tap beer.

Blessing our booth: a movie star photo.
    Know him?  my father asked.
Sure, already at home in my new town,
    Bruce Lee, the karate king:
four bacon-sized scratches
    across his cobblestone stomach,
hands cocked to stir up a hurricane.
    My father drained his Bloody Mary
in two swallows.  Back in Old Greenwich
    my mother loved a good cry
over Clark Gable.  Raising me was done.

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“Will Nixon’s narrative poems strike a rare balance between a child’s sense of wonder and a skeptic’s dry, knowing assessment of the world. We know at every wrenching turn or droll digression that we’re in the presence of a born storyteller.” Mikhail Horowitz