I can see their
Streets so slick
Smell the grease
Rubbed between
Each palm
As it makes
For a fine
Concoction
To lift thick hair
With a quiff
As they sit outside
Waiting for passage
To the bakeries
And bars
Of their forebears
Leaning on walls
In old leather
Jackets held tight
With both hands
As the night
Grows brighter
From waiting
For these building signs
To turn neon
And glow
Like triumphs
Still looming
As they step
Into shadows
Beneath.
Coffee cups
Reaching their lips
Cigarette sparks
On their fingers
Pizzerias
Filled with laughter
Of men whose time
We can’t know
Or imagine right
In its place
Fathoming
A deadly
Habit
When equal
Lies
Were just pleasures
Of that blissful
Crime
They call youth.
Dawdling
As kids will do
Down blocks
Whose homes
Remain lighted
Where the smell
Of red wine
Permeates
Mingling
Often with garlic
Dispersed
Among flickering
Pictures
Caught
By the living room
Walls
While the analog set
Murmurs static
And yells escape
From the kitchen
Bouncing off
Plastic tablecloths
And fine china
Used
Only once.
The rugs so torn
From their feet
And halls too crude
For those pictures
Of saints
And ornaments
Special
Near a plaque
Whose Christ
Is sad
Above
What family sits
Picking up
Fear
By its bootstraps
Believing strength
Their aggression
And bravado
Permanent faith.
To us
That’s old
And wrong
Medieval
Almost as courage
But then
It was right
For endurance
Using pain
Toward achieving
Their goals –
A wife
And child
Ignored
Words
So cold
They were whispered
Or hollered
Louder than feelings
Suppressed
For the burden at hand
During evenings
Out
With the guys
Forgetting
Work was their sentence
And heart attacks
Mission accomplished
To lift
Such bricks
Like they’re stones.
– J. Pigno
The Instance and The Phrase 