Fifty Years

by Ivo Skoric

Fifty years
Every greyish morning
Going to their secure
Yet very boring, ordinary jobs
They said hi to each other
As if they were best friends

Fifty years
They waited for the green light
Counting their days
Remembering every ominous gesture
So patiently
To spill the red blood
Of each other


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About Ivo Skoric

Ivo Skoric's picture

I was born in Germany. I grew up in what was once Yugoslavia with my grandmother. My parents did not have time for kids. They were busy chasing careers. My grandmother died. My father remarried. She was a hag with kids from previous marriages. I left to live alone. Late eighties were time of big possibilities in the rapidly collapsing communist Europe. I never got a degree, I had too much fun: I had a radio talk-show. And I talked too much. Big brother started to follow me around and talk to me (and he also took my passport away). But he soon got other business to attend to: war and destruction. And I snook out to East Village just before Nirvana came around. Then I stayed in Harlem for 11 years paying $275 in rent for 2BR. It was too cheap to leave (even with rats and roaches and collapsed bathroom ceiling). I lifeguarded in New Jersey. I liked the job because I could be shirtless and because I always drove against traffic. Now I professionaly, succesfully, executively slack off in Vermont and snowboard often with my son, who already got his letter to the editor published in the local newspaper at age 8.