the rix mix

I had a piano student, nice boy, his mom had been a doctor in the Soviet Union, was taking med school classes here toward her American license   while working in a meat packing plant. She used to bring me whole pastramis.

I offered to accept a pastrami or corned beef every so often in lieu of money for that lesson, the meat was worth more than I charged.  She said no, she got one every week for free,  they were gifts to me.

Labels: poem