-William's Saga-

I was born at 1017

Then moved westward to 1015.

1017 to 1015.

New planet. Same furniture.

Everything I wanted from life

Was laid at my feet

Between theses numbers.

Water from heavy rainfall would

Sweep downhill from the east,

Down the slope of the street

From the edge of the Narrows

Flooding into a concave arc of pavement

Directly beneath the feet

Of the tenement houses we lived in.

There, the water stopped moving down

And instead moved up

In the art of the downpour, the eighth

Wonder of the World.

I was told by Louie Rossi

That Donald Peterson threw

A kitten down the sewer.

I was told that Pinky

Drowned at the Quarry’s

Ledge,— a still, forbidden water.

The old-timer calling for rags

Pulling his team behind him

Was dubbed “Skeleton Ghoul-Tender”—

Hid a carving knife inside

His tattered coat.

Under the porches

Dank with tuberculosis

I'd hide the Nudies

And discover the ancient smut of others.

Swift swig of beer

From behind the Billboards.

Glance of manhood.

I couldn’t hit for distance but I could run.

So I bunted my way to first,—
Then got to second base with Angela Fazzina
Behind the stage in the basement of our Church.

Albie Bernard got beaned and died in a day.

But my sister’s teenage friends were angelic.

Some whiter than the sheets of the clothesline.

Some dark as the island's olives.

Fifties girls.

I remembered them fondly each night
As I'd close my eyes beneath the sheets.

I can’t strike up better imagery

Than that.
             
                                         Quequechan