Dad 3

                    Stories my dad told me, but I could never figure out
which ones. All mixed up for a kid like me, wide-eyed, sleepy head.
Some Southern dialect from Puglia mostly;
a rugged countryside
dotted with confino ghosts,
scarred memories,
reporting each morning il posto di polizia,
and then the day was yours basking in the sun
of your morning cappuccino.
                                                          The surrounding laughter,
faceless and unknown. Il giornale mattina.
They didn’t tell you much.
Mornings languishing into sun-dappled afternoons
where all was quiet. Even the bluebirds remained unsung.
Tutto questo tempo.
This is what you would’ve done.
You were one of the more lucky ones.
You were not in Italy, beyond your years.
You were in the Bronx
telling me more stories yet to come, as if to come
by way or mornings; the borough waking up
with the forgetfulness of dreams,
with the far away and near at heart.