THE WIND AT THE END OF
THE DAY
It was the wind at the end of the day
Rocking crowded ships at sea,
Steaming from Naples and Abruzzi
To Ellis Island and the New World.
Where family names were countries,
Anglicized, avoiding assimilation.
Where immigrants, apprehensive
Of sardine-packed sanctuaries,
Were quarantined by smallpox,
Processed and purged
To toil in dust clouds of dreams.
I was too young to remember these stories.
Frog-throated voices of men
Speaking olive-toned language.
Handshakes, kisses, hugs….
Passionate men even in America.
Icemen, bakers, bricklayers.
Grandfather was a factory worker
Laboring to shape a living
In New York City’s ghettos,
Every day but Sunday.
I remember Sundays….day of rest,
Church
Breakfast
Chasing chickens through the garden,
While garlic splashes and sizzles in hot oil.
Sunday is always Sunday.
But now, many memories forgone,
An empty condo in Century Village
And afternoons,
Sitting in a strange garden with grandfather….
No chickens, no fruit, no vegetables,
The wind bending the pine trees.
E’ il vento, al confine del giorno.
It’s the wind at the end of the day.
The Interview
He wants to know more about me,
beyond the employment history on my resume
but I tell him I can't tell him much.
It's recommended I don't divulge that information
to protect you from discriminating against me
which would make us a prejudiced society.
However, in an effort of reasonable disclosure,
I will tell you this...
I was born in the year Babe Ruth died,
when Citation won the Triple Crown,
when the State of Israel was created
and New York's Idlewild Airport opened.
A gallon of gas was sixteen cents.
A gallon of milk was eighty-seven cents;
and Dad could buy a house for seven grand.
I served as an altar boy when Sputnik was launched,
though blessed, drank wine inferior to what grandfather made
with his hands and feet in Lama Dei Peligni.
I served our country when Sgt. Pepper debuted
and Ho Chi Minh refused to stop infiltration.
I looked into the reflection of his startled eyes,
pinstripes gone and I'm sitting in my birthday suit.
Scales are running up and down my back, my nose
smoking, exhaling flames and tail oscillating.
He praises my qualifications, promises to contact me
in two weeks; and I wait in a dust collection of resumes.
It was the wind at the end of the day
Rocking crowded ships at sea,
Steaming from Naples and Abruzzi
To Ellis Island and the New World.
Where family names were countries,
Anglicized, avoiding assimilation.
Where immigrants, apprehensive
Of sardine-packed sanctuaries,
Were quarantined by smallpox,
Processed and purged
To toil in dust clouds of dreams.
I was too young to remember these stories.
Frog-throated voices of men
Speaking olive-toned language.
Handshakes, kisses, hugs….
Passionate men even in America.
Icemen, bakers, bricklayers.
Grandfather was a factory worker
Laboring to shape a living
In New York City’s ghettos,
Every day but Sunday.
I remember Sundays….day of rest,
Church
Breakfast
Chasing chickens through the garden,
While garlic splashes and sizzles in hot oil.
Sunday is always Sunday.
But now, many memories forgone,
An empty condo in Century Village
And afternoons,
Sitting in a strange garden with grandfather….
No chickens, no fruit, no vegetables,
The wind bending the pine trees.
E’ il vento, al confine del giorno.
It’s the wind at the end of the day.
The Interview
He wants to know more about me,
beyond the employment history on my resume
but I tell him I can't tell him much.
It's recommended I don't divulge that information
to protect you from discriminating against me
which would make us a prejudiced society.
However, in an effort of reasonable disclosure,
I will tell you this...
I was born in the year Babe Ruth died,
when Citation won the Triple Crown,
when the State of Israel was created
and New York's Idlewild Airport opened.
A gallon of gas was sixteen cents.
A gallon of milk was eighty-seven cents;
and Dad could buy a house for seven grand.
I served as an altar boy when Sputnik was launched,
though blessed, drank wine inferior to what grandfather made
with his hands and feet in Lama Dei Peligni.
I served our country when Sgt. Pepper debuted
and Ho Chi Minh refused to stop infiltration.
I looked into the reflection of his startled eyes,
pinstripes gone and I'm sitting in my birthday suit.
Scales are running up and down my back, my nose
smoking, exhaling flames and tail oscillating.
He praises my qualifications, promises to contact me
in two weeks; and I wait in a dust collection of resumes.
