Bigots and Beer
Grandfather and Lenny Bruce arm and arm on the sidewalk smoked a joint.
Like clock work local members of the KKK marched, shouting their venom at Catholic’s and Jew’s alike.
Grandfather stepped to spit when Lenny grabbed his arm pulling him into the local Irish dive for a pint.
Steps behind, my Grandmother did the spiting, then walked to church.
Dad, his blond hair full of ringlets protected from the scene by his seven sisters, was ushered past the bar and bigots.
The irony, despite protection my dad would drink too much, learning to covet his own bigotry and hate.