Tuesday Poem: First published in Outerbridge in 1987

                   Illustration by Frederic Dorr Steele

When The Junk Man Came Down Summer Street

We stood on the sidewalk 

across from the corner drugstore,

eyeing our own reflections in the green glass doors

behind which Doc’s Great Dane slept 

every night to scare away burglars.

We stretched and pranced 

impatient as runners, waiting for the junk man 

and his wagon to roll like a ghostly wave

across Doc’s little harbor of marble and glass,

the knobs on the soda fountain 

bobbing like white marker buoys.

We followed him down the block then:

past old D’Allessandro squinting 

through Coke bottle glasses

his white hair stiff as the brushes 

that hung from the sides of the wagon,

past Rose Quatrocchi with her 

sons in their shiny red stroller,

past Ralph Molinaro 

who kept pigeons and rabbits,

his backyard bristling with edible blossoms,

past the girls playing hopscotch 

with a hard rubber heel, begged from 

the shoemaker who never seemed busy,

who my father said was a Mafia bookie,

their game interrupted, the girls ran behind us.

The junk on the wagon   

tilted and swayed like the graceful trombones 

and French horns the old men played as they 
marched for the feast of Santa Croce Camarina.

His cowbells were strung 

like stars across our daylight.

They clanked and tinkled 

and floated a rhythm that made us 

want to start skipping.

There was Santa and Rosa

whose  mother could never 

remember their names

and called them Hey You in Italian,

Columbia who couldn’t come out 

unless Baby Jerry came with her,

Tanya and Sonia, and Hanna their sister,

their mother on the porch 

in her flowered babushka.

Then Georgie Capello 

and blonde-headed Victor,

and Sammy the Mongol 

who swore like a trooper.

Even crazy Joe, in his black leather jacket,

stopped combing his hair and came out

to call to the chestnut junk wagon  horse

who seldom looked up 

at the sound of our voices,

his hooves rocking slow 

on the hard black macadam,

inching his way to the corner on rickety legs.

Past the brick stoop where 

Gracie’s Communist tenant

sat by himself every night like a mummy,

past Father Andresani’s cranky old mama

her gray head nodding in time to the rosary,

down to Louie’s where we 

bought Daddy's cigarettes,

and lemon ice with the leftover money.

Louie made it himself 

in a big silver bowl 

at the back of the store

and he told us he made it 

with snow shipped from Italy.

Then the junk man waved 

as he got to the corner,

taking his jingle and clip-clop 

toward 21st Ave. His hat sat so straight 

on his head in the gold and the shadows,

it sent sparks up our spines 

as we stopped at the corner 

to wave him goodbye,

made us suddenly jump Double Dutch

or play Tag in a wild stampede over fences,

and through the network of yards 

and alleyways behind our houses.

On those days we were never glad 

to be called in to supper.

The rust and the clutter, 

the feathers, the moving machine parts,

the slack leather reins in the junkman’s

powerful big knuckled hands,

the spots on the horse’s back 

where the hair had rubbed off,

the plod and the footfall 

lingered in our heads, so we 

laughed out loud in our beds 

before falling asleep.

There was so little junk in our lives.

Tuesday Poem: Published in Kalliope in 1986

photo by Rick Ruggles
 (color adjusted)

  

Let's Invite Autumn

into bed with us,

our legs rustling the sheets,

like wind sighs through fallen leaves,

a hint of dryness in the murmuring

that passes between us,

our mouths cool,

insistent as morning,

on the edge of desperation.

Let's start school tonight,

open each other like brand new books,

tangle ourselves in curiosity,

take a recess from innocence.

I'll show you my September apples.

We can press cider together,

drink to the gathering darkness.

Dance with me -- a last fandango

as we go ablaze, as we come

down to sweet sleep,

bright sails along the golden,

rim of sunset, the giddy

contours of what’s

about to pass away.

Tuesday Poem: Published in The Passaic County Community College Anthology in 1989

Black Dress Poem

  Isn't it a bitter thing to think of him floating that way...

  and no one to keen him but the black hags that do be flying

  on the sea.                         

                                                J. M. Synge

                                               Riders To The Sea

Daddy, I used to smell your T-shirts

lying so white in the drawer,

as I put the laundry away,

long thoughtful breaths,

leafing nervously

through the old photographs,

you kept hidden under the socks,

looking for clues.

It was my secret ritual,

leaning against the foot board

of the pineapple-poster marriage bed

that had always been too small for you.

Pictures of you as a young Marine

in bar after bar surrounded by friends,

their faces so many smiling moons

held close by your gravity, some Rita

Hayworth woman on your arm.

The eight by ten

Mommy talked about

through gritted teeth:

Lola with the long red nails

who was crazy for you

but wouldn't have suited the family.

My father the Admiral's Orderly,

with a mustache and a forty five,

dressed in your battle tuxedo:

an open pack of Camels

your boutonniere.

It would have been impossible then

to imagine that you stood

on the rim of a bottomless well

that would eventually swallow you,

or that your children would have to turn

their backs on you to save themselves.

Daddy, all the years you kept from sinking,

by pouring a sea of beer down your throat,

I searched for you everywhere,

despite the shadows. I want to tell you,

I saw you, I saw you, even though

a curtain hung between us:
too heavy for me to lift.