PASSANTINO
The blur is what I most imagined, I remembered it
well, as if it had just occurred. Flowers on a shady
mantle, Grandma in the kitchen, and - outside -
my father holding the hose while, in his other hand,
he also held a can of beer. Life was funny then.
-
Like curdled milk, or something left out on a table,
things slowly discolored and curled as dryness set in.
It wasn't as if I really minded; everything seemed
always OK by me. I guess I'm easy that way.
-
I never really had words with anyone.
I did hear people yell, or erupt, as my
father often did, into loud, strange quarrels
over things of, really, little substance. Now
and then, neighbors, cousins, mothers and
fathers, fathers and sons. Living like that,
it all seemed a ghetto to me. Most like
any other : Italian, Spanish, Jewish, Irish,
whatever. Every form has its thug-form,
made from the very same matter as the best,
but just different. Sometimes I really wished
I was gone early on.
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